Don't Fall in Love with Me
by TamperedTemporaryBliss
Summary: Santana Lopez: world class playgirl; hottest bitch in town. Quinn Fabray: world class lawyer; prettiest lips in the city. And then there's the contract: the stupidest thing that they both, somehow, agreed to.
1. Chapter 1

_Helllooooooo! So I'm back (sort of) for my next fic! The update rate will be about once per week, because life/school/exams/shit is getting hectic and I'm lacking sleep (and therefore lacking ideas)_

_BUT. i do have this fic all planned out, so I believe I can keep updates fairly steady!_

_This is slightly AU, but Santana and Quinn have grown up together and high school is quite similar to how GLEEEE portrays it (although slightly different. you'll see as the story progresses!)_

_I vow to make chapters longer (hopefully!) and cut down on the crap i say in my AN (which is already failing)!_

_Anyways, hope you enjoy! And have funnnn reading thiss! R&R_

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**Chapter 1**

_Quinn's POV_

"So I'm still allowed to flirt, still allowed to fuck other girls. Only difference is I have a few maids, lots of good food, and a big house, big bed to live and sleep in. And a so-called wife?"

"Yes!" The exasperation in my voice clearly frustrates me more than it frustrates the woman who just popped this question at me for the third time in an hour. Where is my usual composed self anyway?

The position I am in now was surely the most awkward position possible for any legal document to be signed. Instead of the usual, professional, and somehow menacing stance I take—leaning across the oak table, lips pursed into a mean frown, eyes squinted, and palms pressed against the hardened wood in a silent threat—I find strong, caramel-colored arms wrapped around my waist, creasing my freshly ironed dress shirt. Damn embarrassing. If any of my employees decided to walk unannounced into my private meeting room at this very moment, I'd be sure to have him castrated. Or have her dealt with one way or another. Actually, just having them removed from the face of this earth seems like a better idea.

Her voice tears apart all of my plans.

"This is a really good deal, Fabray. What's the catch? You rang me up last week, asked me out for coffee practically every day to try to know me again. And now this?"

"Lopez. Can you please sit back down. Stop clinging onto me."

"Awwww, wifey's mad!" I can _hear_ the fucking smirk from her voice even though I can't see her. I want to punch her. Or kill her, that's alright too. Oh wait, I need her. Can't kill her. Yet.

If there is one person that can get on my nerves the split second she walks into the room, it's my cocky ass of an ex-best-friend, Santana Lopez.

"Look," I decide it's time to stop putting up with this shit. I shove her roughly, the direction of my push aimed so perfectly that she falls back onto a swivelling chair. It's a well-practiced action anyway. I near her, this time with the usual mean frown, squinted eyes, and straight back. "I just need you to sign this damn document lying on that damned table." My glare remains unfazed as she tilts her head to the side, with this ridiculous look on her face. Her countenance doesn't change either—no fear, no nothing.

I cant believe I've spent an hour with this insane woman. Such a waste of my time. I could be earning more money this very minute. I don't even want to start calculating how much money I've lost because of this loser.

"Quinn, what's wrong? You don't usually swear like a sailor."

I don't know whether it's her feigned concern or the part of me that wishes the concern wasn't feigned that disgusts me entirely. It's probably the way that she chooses to use my first name for the first time in years for this occasion. It's making me feel more uncomfortable than I already am.

"I'll spit in your face like one if you don't shut up. Can you just sign that damn document," my words sound bitter. They are as much of a command as a question.

"Why do you want a temporary wife by contract? And why me? I thought you were straight?"

I give up, throwing my hands into the air, "Can you stop questioning every thing I do?! I do it for a reason!"

"Oh, of course. I shouldn't be questioning _anything _at all here. If I sign this thing, I just _magically_ become your fucking wife!" The sarcasm in her voice only makes me roll my eyes.

"Look, Lopez. You sign this thing, and I'll owe my life to you."

"This is some shit about Russel again, isn't it?"

I take a seat across her as I hear the name of my father. The reincarnation of Lucifer. If there was another person that could get on my nerves the split second he walked into the room, it would be Russel Fabray, my biological father, the spawn of hell.

I hate him because I've come to fear him. I'm not in control when he's around. And that kills me inside.

But what I hate more than the thought of Russel right now is how Santana is right yet again, as she often was. That was a fact I never would admit out loud. I don't like letting her know she's right about me.

"I thought mother divorcing him would make some sort of difference for me." I sigh, shaking my head.

"What did he do this time? I thought he was homophobic and everything? Why is he forcing you to marry me?" She looks really really skeptical about the situation at hand, but I really have little that I can tell her. The whole thing barely makes sense to me, so I don't really expect it to make sense to her either.

"He's not," I bite back quickly, smoothing out my black pencil skirt as I speak. I don't look at Santana, but I can tell her eyes are on me. "Apparently when I was 18, he somehow got ahold of me in a not-so-sober state and made me sign a legal document that I never thought could exist."

"Saying…?"

"If I wasn't married by my 25th birthday, I marry a pastor of his choice."

"Wow." She exhales. From the way she's looking kinda funny, I can tell she's holding back a sarcastic 'wanky'.

"Santana," I pause, realizing that I've used her first name to address her. I shake it off, or try to, at the very least. "You know my 25th birthday is three months away. I don't think I can land a Prince Charming on such short notice."

Santana only scoffs at my words, "I'd have thought Lucy Quinn Fabray would have began to plan this as soon as the document was signed."

"I would have if I knew about this contract. I didn't find out till last week." I know my voice sounds poisonous as the words slip through my lips, "That's why I called you."

"Alright, so now I understand why you'd want to get a fake marriage. But why me? I'm the next thing to your worst enemy."

_You are my fucking worse enemy. Other than Russel. _I grit my teeth again. "If I married some dope of a guy, I'd probably be forced into sex, right? Besides, men disgust me. After the pregnancy thing with Finn?"

I realize how 'lesbian' I must sound as I catch a glimmer of sympathy in the corner of Santana's eye, but it doesn't last long. Her tone is laced with something close to mock-amusement, "So the next logical choice is to call your lesbian ex-bestfriend and ask her to marry you?"

If I didn't need Santana so badly right now, I'd have sent her away with a fractured vagina._ If that was even possible._

I know I do owe Santana a better explanation that what I'm giving her, but I really have none to offer. It's not everyday that a client sits in this room bombarding me with questions. Actually, it's never happened until today. Usually it's the standard sit down, read this, sign that, bye, next client please! Today it's more like the sit down, get the fuck on my nerves, ask enough questions to write a fucking book about it, and stay so fucking long that I'm gonna break down.

I try to control my temper. To lose it now, like losing it in front of all clients, is deadly.

"I sort-of know you. He sort-of knows you. You're lesbian. It works out so well." It's not much of an explanation, but it'll have to suffice. I stand up from my seat, walking towards her. I know my logic isn't really logic at all, but nonetheless, I need this thing signed. I put one hand on the table and lean low, until my face is a mere inch from her's. She smells like some tropical fruit. "So are you signing it or not?"

"Only for you, Blondie."

Much to my relief, her slender fingers reach for the pen lying on top of the papers.

But she's Santana, and she will not waste any chance to piss me off more. I know things can't be as simple as this. And I'm not wrong.

She leans up, and before I can react, I feel lady lips on mine.

Instantly, I pull away, "What the hell?!" I hear the drop of a pen and I realize she has signed the contract. It's a relief that this one-hour-and-fourteen-minutes of my life isn't entirely wasted.

"I thought I could kiss my wife." Her trademark smirk is almost more than I can bare. "Shall we consummate our marriage tonight?"

"Out. Now." My voice is as cold as ice, as sharp as the knife I want to stab into her. It's not that I hate her. I always thought the opposite of love was hate, but how wrong I have been! Seeing her again reminds me what the opposite of love is. It's pain. Pure, unadulterated pain.

She stands up as she laughs half-heartedly, and I find it rude and mocking, "When do I move in?"

"Today. This document makes us legal."

"Temporarily legal," her voice softens as she reminds me of this oh-so-very vital point. I nod in silence as I stack up the 58-page packet, glancing down to examine her signature. It's elaborate and professional, each loop and curl seemingly flawless. It's a little like Santana herself, really.

I watch her as she pushes the sanded glass door aside, looking back at me to flash a quick wink. Then she just walks straight out, as though nothing ever happened between us.

Suddenly it all feels too familiar.

I remember things I wish I could forget and feel a little dizzy as a flood of memory drowns me.

This whole meeting up with Santana and marrying her and then being kissed and walked out on makes me wish I could rid myself of the memory of why Santana and I had grown apart in the first place. I wish my brain would forget the first kiss I ever had. I wish I could forget the way she looked when she walked out of my bedroom door of my childhood home for the last time.

I sink deep into a nearby swivelling chair, and sink even deeper into my own past.

In retrospect, I was a damned fool. I hated my father for what he did to me. For what he did to Santana and I. It's a real pity I was raised by a homophobic bastard to be a homophobic bitch.

I had known Santana all my life, and I had known all along she was different. Even in the early days of middle school, when I fantasized about my Prince Charming, or about a first kiss or some prom date or _something_ relating to a boy, Santana never joined in. She'd listen, but she'd look at me a little weirdly. She'd smile from time to time, and tell me that she was capable of doing what I wanted from a guy. But I'd always brush her off. _How did I not get that fucking hint_.

Our childhood days were filled with 'Santana and Quinn' or 'Quinn and Santana'. Sometimes, I felt like she was part of me. We never spent any recess, any holiday apart. We had grown up together, and somewhere along the lines, we must have vowed to grow old together. Santana and I were practically inseparable. It felt like she was joined to me at the waist. She's the siamese twin I never had.

But that all changed in the summer just before our freshmen year in highschool. I want to forget what happened, but I can't. It's really funny how things you meant to remember seem to slip away with time, but things you wish to forget just never go away. Maybe it's the constant reminder you give yourself in order to remember to forget the event that makes it stay alive.

I remember it as clearly as yesterday, the way she came crying to me, tears falling from the eyes of the strongest girl I knew. I remember the way I held her, and the way I combed my fingers through her hair to calm her like I always did. I remember hearing her tell me she didn't want me to start dating Finn, and she didn't want me to leave her. I remember her leaning up and telling me she loved me. And then there was that touch of her lips on mine. It sent a fire through my body and I felt scared. _That became my memory of a first kiss._

I don't remember reciprocating either the kiss or the words, but I do remember pushing her away immediately, telling her to go, and watching her shaking back as she walked out of my bedroom door. _Without looking back._

Just like that, she was gone forever.

I didn't hate the kiss. I didn't hate her. Was I supposed to? I was simply confused.

I think it was more of my fear of the unknown that made me run away by making her go. I wasn't scared of her. But I knew we were both girls, and that kiss nearly made me lesbian. To a church educated girl, that was wrong.

It still haunts me, how I so coldly rejected her. I loved her, maybe not in the exact same way… but Santana was my best friend, and she didn't deserve what I gave her. I regret that singular shove I gave her that day, and every time we fought in school after, every shove I sent in her direction made me feel more guilty about the first shove.

To my surprise, she never expressed direct resentment towards me when we met again. Two weeks later, when we were back in school as freshmen, she acted like nothing happened. But something did. It was never 'Santana and Quinn' or 'Quinn and Santana' anymore. It became 'Santana, Quinn, and Brittany' or some form of those three words in another order. I can't even remember the exact moment when Brittany joined our party of two.

I didn't really like that. I've always heard it said 'two's company, three's a crowd'. It's actually surprisingly accurate. Especially since 'Santana, Quinn, and Brittany' very quickly became 'Santana and Brittany' or 'Brittany and Santana'. By the middle of the school year, I was often alone, feeling like the third wheel as I tagged along behind S and B.

I missed the days when Santana would come over for no real reason and hang out. She still that, but not with me. It really didn't shock me when she came out of the closet with Brittany. What else was I to expect?

I had felt hurt, but my pain must have been nothing compared to the pain she felt with that singular push. Although she was civil enough with me to begin with, she became increasingly snappy, increasingly insulting. I don't remember when we stopped texting, stopped talking, stopped communicating. Apart from the occasional insults we shot at each other, we never did say an extra word.

We climbed up the Cheerios pyramid together, but never without pushing the other back down to the bottom at every chance we had. Somehow we had changed from friends to enemies. I don't know how it happened. I wish I did, because if I did, I could maybe undo the damage.

But I didn't know, and I couldn't undo the damage. Santana was just never there anymore.

She wasn't there when I had my pregnancy. She wasn't there when my father kicked me out. She wasn't there when the baby was gone. She wasn't there when I had Finn stolen by Rachel—she wasn't there when I needed her most.

Well, not physically. Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse or something from her. Something so small that no one but I noticed. But it feels so little. I needed a lot more.

It hurt to feel so estranged, but I'd never admit it, at least not to her.

Pure pain.

We just stayed that way in a very strained relationship till we graduated.

After we graduated, I didn't see her again. We didn't talk. I had her on Facebook, and occasionally I'd see a photo she posted or her relationship status (which changed every week), but I never responded, liked, or shared anything of her's. I'd simply keep scrolling.

I didn't want to be reminded of her. I didn't want to think about her, or anything we had or I wish we had now. I didn't want to face the pain again.

She never seemed to miss me, not that I blamed her. I would tell myself I didn't miss her either. It's really just an elaborate lie I've made up to keep myself in check.

That was until last week. I found out about the hell I was shortly about to plunge into. I knew I _had_ to get in touch with her. If there was one person on this earth that would agree to a wedlock by contract to save my life, it would be her. I knew that Santana Lopez was still a far shot from perfection for a plan like this to work out, but she was my best choice. She's a far shot from how I planned my life to be, but with my ship sailing fast and furious into an iceberg, she'd have to do.

I feel rather guilty because I feel like I'm just using her. But they say that when you've loved someone, you always have a soft spot for them. And I absolutely _need_ that soft spot from her.

I'm a calculating bitch. I always have been. There's no other way to be successful in this career.

I am well aware of her playgirl habits, but I also know she can be secretive. She was and is an actress, like me. We'd pull this off. It wasn't exclusive anyway. And when my dad left for good, I could break off this ridiculous marriage.

I know Santana well enough to know that ever since Brittany broke her heart, she'd been playing 'no strings attached' with all her relationships, so the divorce would be easy as hell to complete. I'd send her away with a large sum of money and never see her again.

I pushed open the sanded glass door that separated this room from the main corridor. As I walked through I heaved the heaviest sigh of relief I ever have since the end of the pregnancy ordeal. At least for now, I am safe enough.

Thanks to all the training I had, I had picked out from Russel's documents, one _fatal_ flaw. That one flaw saved me from turning my life into hell again. Well, I was free of Russel-hell, but I was now diving straight into Santana-hell. I knew it wouldn't be as bad though. Nothing could quite compare to Russel-hell.

To cheer myself up a little more about my whole current situation, I told myself it'd just be like living like roommates. We'd sleep in different rooms, and maybe talk occasionally.

I didn't like the idea of being married to Santana, but I secretly relished the thought of the possibility of salvaging the tattered remains of our friendship.

I never dreamed of anything more.

But then again, Santana is well, Santana, and that makes the whole relationship unpredictable.


	2. Chapter 2

_FF is screwing with mee. I was gonna upload this last night, but it won't let me. and still kinda won't. but anyways, hope you enjoy!_

_i forgot a disclaimer last chapter, so I'll do one here for the whole fic: I obviously don't own Glee or Quintanna would be cannon, the main characters, the main romance, and they'll fuck like bunnies and have a billion children. Okay, maybe not the kids, but you get the idea!_

_Thanks for all the reviews/favorites/follows, my darlings!_

_Have fun reading! (and reviewing!)_

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**Chapter 2**

_Santana's POV_

Talk about life changes. Just last week I was spending more nights in strangers' beds than my own. Just last week I was running a little low on money and a little low on rent because of all the shopping I've been doing. Just last week I was considering getting one more job to make the bills a little easier to pay. Just last week, Lucy Quinn Fabray didn't exist in my life. I still am not sure why I had let her into my life again, after the way she pushed me away. But I suppose I subtly pushed her away too.

But now, here I am, standing at the door of her house. It's huge. I don't even remotely try to find another word to describe it. It's a two-storey house that looks a little like a mansion, complete with a huge garden in front and a roof top garden on the top. The car park holds a white Porsche and an empty spot. _Holy hell. _She sure as hell is earning big bucks.

Even though we've been separated for so long, I still occasionally catch a whiff of her life from one of our mutual friends. I know she's a successful lawyer. It really doesn't take any Mercedes-gossip to know that one. It's written all over New York city, all over the news.

She's really accomplished no less than I expected her to.

She's Quinn Fabray, after all. She's the one I had first set my eyes on.

I ring the doorbell, half-expecting a maid in a French-maid uniform to open the door. _Wanky._

But no french uniform answers the door, nor is there a maid to greet me. Instead, I find myself face to face with a not-so-happy looking Quinn in a soft pink silk robe. It makes me wonder if she's wearing anything underneath. _Definitely wanky._

She catches the way I've raised an eyebrow, but she says nothing about it. Her voice is cold as she speaks two words, "You're late." She's looking me up and down, inspecting me, judging me.

_Way to greet your new wife._ As far as I'm concerned, no time was set for when I was to arrive. "It's only a little past midnight," I muse, watching every flicker of her eye, "Are you gonna let me in or what?" I can tell she's holding back a long string of insults. I suddenly realize how amusing it will be to live with Quinn. It'll be hilarious to get her mad.

"You can leave your luggage. Mia will take it in. I've arranged for someone to go over and pack the rest of your stuff tomorrow and bring it over."

She moves away from the door, and I take that as an affirmative for inviting me in the house. I follow her, and I watch from the corner of my eye as a thin Hispanic woman in her forties gives me a hurried bow. I'll assume this is 'Mia', seeing that she dashes out the front door as soon as I've passed. I see two other women dressed in a simple grey dress lined up near the door. They bow, too. _This all feels so fucking weird._

"This is a man-free environment. Which means you can stalk around the house naked and no one will care. Mia's my housekeeper and maid. Sara is her sister, and will probably be your personal maid. Eliza tends the garden and the pool." _Pool? Woah._

I'm barely listening to Quinn's introduction of her household. Our household. I'm too busy gawking at 'our' home. This place is simple, in shades of black, white, brown, and a tinge of red. _And rent free._

"You'll find Hester in the kitchen. She's the cook. She's also mute, so don't expect her to verbally respond to you. And have a little more patience with her."

Quinn doesn't sound bitchy when she says that. Her voice isn't laced with prejudice. It surprises me that the people in her house aren't all young and fabulous and perfect. In fact, of the four servants she's named, only Eliza the gardener seems to barely make the highschool-Quinn's standards.

She's living in a house of misfits. A little bit like how our highschool Glee Club used to be like. A family of misfits. In some twisted way, it's more comfortable.

She stops in her steps and spins around suddenly, and I almost crash straight into her. She's really close. I can smell her scented shampoo. _God._

"I suppose you won't be complaining if I give you a room to yourself."

I shrug, "Sure."

"But I need to talk to you for a bit." Her voice is as cold as a winter night, and it's freezing me from within.

"Um…"

"You have half an hour to get yourself comfortable. Meet me in my study after. Don't be late. Sara will show you to your room."

I watch as she walks up the black steps and turn right at the top of the fleet. I'll assume that's where her room stands. I hear a door close.

"Miss?"

I turn my eyes to find a stout woman in her fifties looking at me with a tired smile, "Just Santana is fine."

She shakes her head and smiles, "Sorry, but I must address you as Miss or Mistress. Mistress Fabray's orders. This way, please."

She leads me up the stairs, but takes a turn to the left at the top. My room is at the very end of the corridor. I'm about as far as Quinn as I could be in this house. _Makes sense. _I hear the door click open, and I step into a big room furnished with shades of red and black. It's fits my style perfectly. _Quinn actually tried. And remembered._

"Would you like tea, miss?"

"I'm alright," I sigh as I turn around to face Sara, "Is Quinn usually like this?"

She cocks her head to the side, her hands clasped on her heart in sincerity as she speaks, "Mistress Fabray seems unusually disconnected tonight."

The way she addresses Quinn makes me feel weird in the stomach. I don't quite understand why.

"How long have you been working here?"I suppose the easiest way to find out more about how this little home runs is through the maids. Quinn won't be offering me much of any information.

"Four years, since the day Mistress Fabray moved in. She took my sister and I in after we were thrown out by my husband."

I nod, but the words don't really register. Quinn is even more mysterious than I thought her to be. In our highschool days, she would never have done this. Quinn Fabray only had perfection around her. The biggest flaw she had was me.

Which reminds me that I, like her family of misfits, is far from flawless as well. The day I kissed her, that was my biggest flaw. I was no longer perfect in her eyes. I was tainted, and on top of that, I had tainted her. I scoff inwardly at her ignorance, but cringe at my own impulsiveness.

"Is there anything I can do for you, miss?"

"Um. Would you come up and lead me to her study in 20 minutes?" I offer a smile at the woman, and she smiles back.

"Of course, Miss. Your luggage will be brought up and your possessions stored while you are in the study, if that is okay with you?"

I nod, "Thanks."

"You're welcome, miss. You will find slippers by the bed." And with that, she leaves, closing the door behind her.

I feel myself letting out a huge sigh. This is a lifestyle that I never expected. At least I won't be tempted by the maids. My thoughts roll into a huge mess. What am I thinking. I'm married now. Sort of. And to Quinn Fabray, of all people! My childhood sweetheart. The hottest piece in highschool.

Should I not be happy?

I remind myself that I must not repeat mistakes like the one I made in the summer before our freshmen year._ Quinn Fabray is a friend. A wife. But no fuck buddy or love interest._

The irony of the whole situation sits surprisingly well in my mind. Somewhere along these months, in bed with nameless faces, I've grown numb. It doesn't even surprise me or scare me to find that I'm numb. That's how bad it's all become.

Suddenly, I remember I was only given half an hour to get myself ready. _That sounds so fucking sexual_.

I sit on the edge of the bed and yank of my boots, slipping my feet into the slippers.

I want to explore, but I have little time to do that. I see a door that's partially opened, and I experimentally step in. It's a beautiful black marble-covered bathroom. Wow.

There's water in the marble bathtub, and bubbles popping away one by one. My finger reaches down to touch the surface of the water. It's at the perfect heat. I tie my hair up and quickly strip down and sink myself into the water. It's heaven.

I let my thoughts drift back to the meeting I had with Quinn this afternoon. It was so weird. But her lips felt exactly like how I remembered. Sometimes I wonder how I remember minute details like this. But I don't know. I just do. Another thing I don't know is why I kissed her.

I know I do things out of impulse, which can actually prove to be pretty stupid sometimes. Like kissing Quinn. That probably was one of the worse ideas I've had all day.

I've spent every hour since the meeting till about half an hour before I landed my ass in this place trying to drown myself on other lips. But none of them seem to linger like the way Quinn's does.

I find it a shame that I cannot enjoy this bath for any longer than another 10 minutes. I mustn't let my thoughts drift too far, even though I have so many questions I wish I had answers to. It's weird, because I know the more answers I seek, the more questions I find.

I absolutely hate how Quinn feels so distant, but at least living together was a way I could try to make amends…

I understand why she feels apprehensive around me. But I don't understand how we became enemies in highschool. Things don't add up. One day we're friends, and the next day we're shouting insults at each other on the top of the pyramid.

This afternoon I realized she's bitter about it. I realized she likes having me around, in some strange twisted sense. I know Quinn wouldn't admit it, but it feels nice to know.

I feel a little like I've found a puzzle piece on my scavenger hunt. The puzzle is nowhere near complete, but it's a start.

I raise myself from the water, taking a clean white towel that had been rolled up and put on the shelf next to the bathtub. I wrap it around my body, only to remember I forgot to get clothes. Wait. I don't have any clothes. All my belongings were downstairs with Mia. I frown, but then I notice a dark red silk robe, similar to Quinn's, hanging behind the bathroom door. A similar colored thong also hangs there.

I find a slight smirk gracing my face. What was Quinn planning, giving me things like this to wear. Still, I put the thong on. It feels soft. And expensive. I slip the silk robe over my shoulders. It's soft, too, and really light. It almost feels like I'm not wearing anything.

Looking at the mirror, I find myself looking damn hot, as usual. I glance at the clock positioned near the sink. I have five minutes before Sara comes in. Enough time to get rid of the make up on my face. Oh, and the faint lipstick on my cheek. I didn't notice that before.

When Sara knocks on the door, I have only just finished getting rid of my make up. I quickly pull the pin out of my hair, letting it cascade down my back.

"Come in!"

Having placed the pin on the shelf next to the shelf, I walk out of the bathroom. I beam at Sara.

"Miss, will you be going down now?"

"Sara, you really can drop the formalities with me. I don't mind." I follow her out, closing the door behind me.

"Maybe when you officially become part of the family," she whispers with an apologetic smile. Ah, so the servants know this marriage is just for show.

I walk down the black stairs again, and I'm led down yet another corridor. The walk seems agonizingly long and unnecessary. I actually feel a bit nervous, which isn't like me at all. I'm so used to being confident, being at the top of the world. The only person who can strip me of this pride is Quinn. It's really weird, and it's making me feel dizzy.

Before I know it, a large wooden door stands in front of me. Sara knocks on it thrice. We both hear a muffled, "Come in." from inside.

Sara nods at me, mouthing 'good luck', before turning the doorknob and motioning towards me to enter.

Somehow her words seems as much of a warning and a curse to me as they were meant to be a blessing.

I'm not sure what to expect, but I know that I have no choice. I signed that contract, by impulse obviously, and so I get to face the glorious consequences.

This will be the second time in a billion years that I will have Quinn alone with me. I could press her against a wall and teach that homophobic bitch a lesson and no one would ever know. But I know I can't do that. It's not that I don't feel attracted to Quinn. That's a total lie that even I, world class liar, can't bring myself to tell. It's that I don't want to hurt Quinn.

I step through the door carefully, and as soon as I'm far in enough, Sarah closes the door behind me.

The room has a high ceiling, and there are so many books. They're all thick, some leather-bound and old. The room itself has a dark and menacing aura. I'm too distracted to notice Quinn.

I hear a click on the heavy door behind me.

I'm guess I'm trapped.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello darlings! The weekly update is here! _

_Thanks for all the wonderful support you guys have shown! I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it!_

_R&R~_

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**Chapter 3**

_Quinn's POV_

"Santana, sit."

She has been standing there as if she's paralyzed, gawking at the book collection behind my desk. I'm sitting right behind my desk, too, and it irks me that she barely notices my existence.

I'm getting a little (very) uncomfortable with the way she's staring at everything in my house like it's from outer space. Our house. On earth. In America.

"Sorry!" she pops as she quickly takes a seat in the chair across to me. She's dressed in the things I asked to be laid out for her. Which I now find to be a big mistake on my part, because she looks too hot.

I catch myself before my thoughts go further. I must not think that way. Santana may have a natural charm, but it certainly isn't a charm that will affect me in any way. I swear I am straight and remind myself that Santana is merely a flawless actress, like myself. She's the understudy for my future husband.

Still, that doesn't give her the right to invade my space or my dreams, especially when that's a spot supposedly saved for my very own Prince Charming. She may not have the right to, but since when did Santana need the 'right' to do something?

With that said, she's already given herself the right to invade my life already (although technically, I invited her to), and I now realize that Santana has newly been successfully in infiltrating my dreams. I took a nap when I returned home, and somehow, out of my utter confusion thanks to the events of that afternoon, I had a dream about her. It wasn't sexual or anything. But it was a dream that made me blush. The taste of the dream-Santana's lips still linger on my own.

I snap back into reality as I find her brown eyes looking inquisitively at my own. It makes me squirm a little and lose my composure. I really should just ditch this whole 'keep your composure in front of Santana' act. It never seems to work. It's the second time I've failed it today, and I know that keeping it up everyday is a waste of time and energy. And I'll need both of those things if I am to shoot equally lethal insults back at her cocky smirk on a split second's notice.

"Why were you so late?" My own words come out a little colder than I intended them to. No harm done, I figure. It's not like we ever spoke nicely to each other in our highschool years.

She looks at my desk, as though by not looking at me, she can somehow ignore my existence again. She wants me to be a ghostly voice, a shapeless and nameless figure. "Um… I was throwing my own bachelorette party?"

Explains why she smelled of women and had a lipstick stain on her cheek when she walked into my house. I roll my eyes. I shouldn't even have needed to ask. I'm talking to a complete heartless bitch of a playgirl anyway. Or so I like to think.

"Glad you had fun." I don't know what else I can say, other than these words laced with sarcasm. I feel a little disappointed, but I had expected this. "No wonder they call you the hottest playgirl in town."

I see her fidget, and it amuses me a little bit. She oughtn't be ashamed of her lifestyle if she always flaunts it everywhere her ass goes.

"I'm sorry, Quinnie."

The nickname makes it my turn to fidget. It's a name she has called me since kindergarten, and it hits me with a wave of nostalgia. Funny how you miss certain things that oughtn't be missed.

"I told you I don't care as long as no one finds out. You just need to play your role as my wife until my dad goes."

She nods in silence. Is she expecting a lecture? I don't plan on giving one. Well, not one regarding her sex habits anyway. That's her business, as long as I don't have a have naked girls roaming freely around my house. And no paparazzi exposing her post-marriage sex habits, which I doubt will be any different. I just don't need to be wrapped up in the scandal now that she's living here.

"Are you finding the house to your liking?"

She nods again. She is so strangely silent. I'm beginning to wonder if this is the same cocky girl I welcomed into my house earlier. It annoys me that she's not talking. It's like she's inferior to me. Well, to a certain extent, she is. She's a contracted wife. But even my maids talk back to me more than she does now. It bothers me that she isn't arguing and snapping back like she used to. I know what's wrong, but I'm gonna ignore it. She doesn't feel like family.

_Oh god. I've missed having her around so much that I'd rather she start verbally fucking with me than be silent and nonexistent._

I erase the thought that I miss her completely. I do not, and I must not. This whole relationship is really a mental game. Whoever gives in first goes crazy and loses. I am determined to win, because I know I'm nothing but another girl to her. And also because I'm too young to go insane.

Suddenly, she speaks up, "Are you usually up this late at night?"

"No, I'm not. I usually go to bed by ten, unless I have a big case that I need to pull an all-nighter for. All the maids are officially off duty by nine, but they'll stick around until we retire to our rooms. Tonight's special."

She nods again in silence. I feel like screaming inside (I swear I'm not going to be the first to lose my mind!). I know I'm being obviously formal with her, but it's all in the best of both our interests. I think.

"Do you want some red wine?"

"I don't mind."

I stand up and glide towards the wine credenza in the corner of my study. I take the bottle of Chateau Leoville Poyferre that I had set out earlier and take two wine glasses. As soon as the glasses are set on my oak table, I pour the wine into them. I set the bottle on a nearby wine rack.

Santana is already swirling the dark liquid around in the glass and ready to take a sip. In the dim lights I have on, the liquid looks eerily like blood.

I find myself sighing again. We sit in silence.

"House rules?" she suddenly blurts out. What on earth is with this whole blurting-things-out-and-surprise-me business?

For a moment, I look at her in confusion. And then I remember our situation. She's my wife who doesn't even know her own home yet. Oh, the irony.

"Not much really. Try not to bring too many of your sluts home. And make sure I don't ever meet them, I don't need to know who's pussy you're fingering."

The way I said that makes her raise a brow. I know it's crude, but there's no point sugar-coating her habits for her. She's crude.

"My room is off-limits. And so is my study, unless you're invited in. I think you respect me enough for that? The rest of the house you can roam."

She's studying me with that piercing gaze of her's. It's burning a hole through me. Silent judgement. Who is she to judge me? Who does she even think she is?

I'm feeling hot all of a sudden. Must be the alcohol. But I had only a sip. My alcohol tolerance must be super low… _Who am I kidding._

I pretend not to notice the way she's staring at me like she wants to swallow me as I continue, "Breakfast is usually at eight. If that's too early for you, you can arrange a time with Hester. Lunch isn't served for me because I'm never home at that time. I come home at around seven-thirty. You'll have to arrange lunch with Hester if you want it. As for dinner, it's usually at eight." I think of nothing else I need to say at the moment, so I take a sip from my glass, "Tomorrow I have a day off. We're going shopping. I'll do the paying." It's more of a command than a request. I need to de-stress, it's been a month since my last holiday. I detest the idea that I will be spending it with one Santana Lopez, but I know shopping with a female companion will make it less lonely. Tomorrow, I vow to myself, I'll let myself be a little more free.

She nods and smiles at the idea. Santana Lopez never gave up a shopping trip for anything. That part of her hasn't changed. It makes me feel a little happier inside.

Wait. No. That didn't happen. I thought I saw her smile, I thought I saw her nod. She's frowning. Seriously, what is wrong with her? Nothing, I decide. She's changed. I've changed.

We've all changed.

"Quinn… I think I might have work tomorrow?"

"No you don't," I retort with a straight face and a very matter-of-fact tone.

"But—"

"No, you don't." I repeat, my lips pulled into a thin line, "You don't have work."

Santana eyes me for a moment, her brows frowning, wondering if she should reject me again, but she decides against it. This time, she really nods.

I nod back in approval. "Also, the last Sunday of the month, Russel is coming. I'll be 'coming out' then." I do the quoting motion with my fingers for emphasis. Again, Santana nods.

It bothers me so much, way more than it should. I know I'm prone to criticizing her every word, whether it be out loud or internally, but that has never stopped her from speaking her thoughts. I don't see why that should stop her now.

I feel myself flushing,"Can you fucking talk?"

She's a little taken aback by my sudden snap. "Well, yes… I'm sorry, I just… I don't know what exactly to say? This is really awkward for me!" This is the honest-as-hell and way-too-blunt Santana I knew.

"Well, we're legally bound by a contract, so I suppose you could at least talk to me."

"I wish you weren't so formal with me all the time. We're supposedly married." _Didn't I just point that out? _At least she was talking now.

"I save the acting for the world to see. When we're at home, we're simply friends."

It's her turn to roll her eyes. "Alright, bestie-that-I-haven't-seen-in-years."

It stings to hear her talk like that. Santana sounds more like herself now, but she still feels distant. We sit in silence for the longest time in history. I fill her glass and my own.

I let my thoughts drift as I focus my attention on the red liquid in my glass. I take a sip, thinking of what to say. Nothing really comes to mind.

I know she's studying me somehow without looking at me. I know that doesn't make any sense, but I can tell she's trying to read my thoughts. I'd be lying to say I wasn't trying to read her's too.

Silent judgement.

I can tell she's tense to be here with me. I think it's because we've been separated for so long that neither one of us knows what exactly is appropriate to say. Or maybe it's the way she's noticed that I'm almost equally as uncomfortable as her. Or maybe it's just the reality that we are married is finally sinking in for both of us.

I'm tired out already. I glance at the clock. It's almost two in the morning. Just how long have we been staring at everything but each other, while drinking glass after glass?

"Are you tired, Quinn?" her voice is soft, a little bit husky. It's spooky how she echoes my thoughts. Her features seem to have softened, and she doesn't seem as resolute to murder me with either silence or a series of insults.

"Yeah," I mumble, finding myself too sleepy to speak properly, "Let's call it a night? Breakfast is at ten tomorrow, since we're up so late."

Santana offers me a sweet smile, and I feel something really weird in my stomach. Somehow, her smile is comforting, yet so confusing. I find myself smiling back.

"Can I walk my wife back to her room?"

I'm taken by surprise. I don't understand how she can take me by surprise so many times in a day. No one ever surprises Quinn Fabray. Maybe except Russel Jackass Fabray. But Santana does it so wonderfully. It's sweet of her, really, considering how estranged we have become, and the hostility we've been treating each other with for the past day. "Why not?"

"And if I ask for a goodnight kiss?"

Without processing her question or my ideal response in my head, I answer. "Maybe on your forehead." _What?_ Whatever, I'll blame it on my sleepiness. Two o'clock does _wondrous_ things on my brain.

She flashes another smile at me, one that makes her seem harmless, real, loving. Friendly.

Suddenly, it feels like I'm the highschool cheerleader all over again, watching at the end of the hallway as she walks away hand in hand with Brittany, and wondering if she'll ever turn back and notice me all alone. Only this time, unlike all the other times before, she's actually turned back and noticed me. And smiled. And I smile back.

It sparks something in me. I feel something in my heart. It's sort-of throbbing, but not in pain.

No wonder she makes such a good playgirl. She knows how to make people feel loved and cared for. Wanted. At the very least, she knows how to make girls feel as though they're one-and-only.

I lead the way out of the study, and back up the stairs. I hear her footsteps fall into pace with mine, the muffled sounds of our slippers shuffling against the black steps.

We reach the top in silence, but it's neither awkward, nor un-awkward. The company is simply comforting.

We both make a turn to the right to my room. I wonder if she's noticed how I placed her room as far as possible from mine. Of course, it's also the biggest guest room, so that would suffice as an answer if she asked… but…

I'm at my door, and I feel arms snake around my waist from behind me. I ought to be slapping her hand away. But it feels nice to be held. This embrace feels so different than the one in my office yesterday… it's actually… real…

I never noticed how lonely I had been until now. I haven't been hugged like this in years, and to top it all off, Santana smells absolutely amazing. It all feels so fey all of a sudden. And it's making me dizzy.

"Goodnight, Quinnie." Her voice is soft and caring as she kisses the side of my neck just once. I'm almost ready to beg for more. But I cannot. I'm just lonely, but I won't stoop so low to succumb to her temptation.

"Goodnight, Tana." I ease her arms away from my waist and turn to look at her. I tip-toe a little to kiss her forehead. When I pull away, she's wearing an expression I recognize. It's the one she had before she gave me my first kiss. I look away instantly. I don't know what it means, and I don't want to know.

_ No strings attached._

"Sweet dreams."


	4. Chapter 4

_Hello darlings! I've had a pretty bad day/week, so I went home and spent a bit of time editing chapter 4 to destress. Then I told myself it wouldn't hurt to post a day early now, would it?_

_I hope you enjoy this chapter... Not my favorite chapter, but hopefully it'll do!_

_R&R_

* * *

**Chapter 4**

_Quinn's POV_

"Quinnie, you realllllllly need to get this dress."

Sometimes, it feels like we're just teenagers again. I scoff at Santana's choice of clothing for me. Clearly, she's just teasing. This is the most scandalous dress I've never owned.

She must have caught the look on my face. She turns dead serious. "I'm not joking. It'd look really good on you."

My eyes grow a little wider at her words. This mermaid nightgown would show all of my back, down to somewhere a little above my tailbone. It's halter-neck barely aids in covering any cleavage. It's black and simple enough, but it's just too revealing.

I shake my head, but before I can open my mouth to protest, I feel her hand slip into mine. "Please, Quinnie? Just try it on?"

Knowing better than to give Santana a chance to go all idiotic and whiny in a high class boutique like this, I give in. She's been a lot more vocal since this morning.

I take the dress into the spacious changing room and close the door. I slip off the coral-colored sundress I have on. I take off my lace bra too, knowing that it will only show with a dress that dips so low in the back.

When I have the dress on, I look into the full-length mirror. Santana is right. I look good in this dress, even though it really is too much for me. I hear a knock and I groan.

"Quinnie, you can't come out in that dress. You don't have the proper stuff to keep your boobs from flopping all over the place."

"I am fairly aware of that," I mutter at the how ridiculous my 'wife' sounds. How is it that she never fails to annoy me?

"So can I come in?"

_What._

"Your wife wants to seeeee you~"

I can sense the sarcasm in her voice. But she knows she'll get her way with that. In order to make our marriage seem real, I have to do some acting in public.

I adjust my tone to sound a little sweeter, but it's still dripping with poison, "Of course you can come in, sweetie."

I unlock the door, and as soon as I open it, she's slipped in. _Fast. _She takes her time to turn around and look at me though.

Next thing I know, Santana's eyes are wide open, her mouth slightly agape. I find the look on her face amusing. I think I'm smirking, but I'm not quite sure.

"Oh my god, Quinn. You really need to get this. You look so good."

"I look like a slut."

"My slut?" Santana grins sheepishly at me, "Wanky~ But kidding, you look really elegant."

Heat rises on my cheeks. I like being complimented by Santana. "Fine, I'll take this one."

She smirks with a pleased look in her eyes. I need to change back into my sundress. I'm expecting her to go out. But she doesn't budge.

"Um…" I motion towards the door, but she just stands there grinning like a dork. _Oh shit._

She leans in and husks into my ear, "I think it's perfectly normal to watch my own wife change."

I appreciate her forwardness, as opposed to her silence from last night, but now she's stepping way over the line.

My blood boils. _Why are my emotions tenfold stronger with her around._

"Out." I hiss, a scowl on my face.

She knows better than making me really really mad. She simply smirks deviously as she moves away and exits the changing room.

What bothers me isn't the fact that she has the audacity to say she wants to watch me change. She's fucking Santana Lopez after all. What bothers me is that I feel an emotion other than annoyance. It's that feeling in the stomach, that blush. I hate it.

I quickly change into my sundress and walk out of the changing room with the gown draped over my arm.

"Sorry." Her eyes make it impossible to stay mad. She looks like a child who's just had her candy taken away from her. I hate how I've always had and still have a soft spot for her, even after everything that happened.

"Whatever. Are you taking anything from this shop?"

"Yea, the burgundy one and the periwinkle one."

_ I love the way she can name so many colors._ "Honestly, I thought you'd be buying more."

"Well, it is on you, and I'll feel guilty. All the shops you've taken me to are so expensive, and we already have a dozen bags." She's not exaggerating as she says that.

"I take you to shops I can afford, alright? If you're my wife, you'll be expected to go around with me to banquets and things. Your own collection isn't bad, but I want my wife to shine a little brighter."

She smiles at my semi-insult, "It's kinda sweet of you, really."

"Shut it, Lopez. Don't push my limit for niceness today."

I place my dress on the counter and Santana does the same. Her toned arm brushes against mine ever so slightly, and I inhale to stop a sound from coming out of my lips. _What is wrong with me today… so flustered with all the little compliments she's giving me?_

The woman behind the counter takes my credit card with a huge smile on her face. I tap my fingers impatiently on the countertop as another woman bags the dresses and tapes the paper bag shut. I sign my name on the receipt and Santana takes the bag.

I really ought to have brought Mia or Sara with me. Or maybe Eliza. Between Santana and me, we have 16 bags in our hands.

My way of de-stressing is expensive indeed.

"Shall we call it a day?"

"Are you tired?"

"Well, considering I've been walking around in stiletto's…"

"You couldn't have been any more reasonable about your shoe choice when it came to shopping."

She laughs when I roll my eyes. It's the first time she's laughed like this since we met up again after all these years. I like it. I feel a little more comfortable with her.

"Well, I like to feel pretty when I'm out shopping with my wife."

"You can stop emphasizing that I'm your wife."

"But you are!"

"Stop it!" I give a playful punch on her shoulder, and for a moment, I'm scared she'll go off balance from wearing those damned heels.

But Santana, flawless as always, doesn't. She simply laughs again, this time with a growing smirk on her face. She seems to enjoy my change in demeanour as well. Funny how we can still talk (and flirt) like we were still the best of friends… maybe more.

It's really nice being with my best friend again. Well, ex-best friend. Or wife. My relationship with her confuses me utterly. Legally, she's my wife. But what are we in reality? What will we become? Being strangers with Santana is definitely not my first choice. Or is it? Should it be?

"Hey you okay?"

I look up at her. Even though I'm actually an inch taller, her heels make her eyes a good couple of inches above my eye level.

"Yeah, of course."

"You seem lost."

_I am._ After all these years, the way she still reads me like an open book marvels me.

"I'm not, I know where we're going. The car park is this way."

"Can I drive?"

I look at Santana with a raised brow, glad that she doesn't push on with 'being lost', "Why? Do you not trust my driving skills?"

"I'm pretty good at driving, okay? And as for you…" she smirks again. It's driving me crazy.

"I'm not the best driver, I'm well aware of that," I scowl, obviously annoyed with being judged.

My scowling only seems to amuse her, which in turn, annoys me. I keep my mouth shut. I don't plan on breaking into a heated argument with my 'wife' in public. Not good for my public figure.

I hear a click and feel a flash behind us. I whirl around immediately. I know what this is.

I see a man duck behind an information board, which does little to conceal his camera.

I begin to walk over—I really don't need anymore public attention about my shopping habits—but Santana stops me. I look at her questioningly.

"It's me." She grins sheepishly at me, "I might have forgotten to mention in the past week that you'll be marrying a newly-famous model."

I feel my jaw drop. Sure, at some point of time, from the corner of my eye, I might have caught a billboard or poster with someone that looked vaguely like Santana posing on it. But I've always ignored it. I was sure she was living a loser lesbian life somewhere. I had heard enough about a woman called 'Santana' that was apparently a complete charmer to know that she was a playgirl. That matched my vision of Santana Lopez, and I suppose that image was the one that stuck. But I never had the time to investigate on what she did for a living. I didn't even have time to read an entertainment magazine, and the television in my house hasn't been turned on for at least four months.

"Do you want a divorce?" she whispers in my ear as she leads me back on our way to the car park.

I roll my eyes, "I can't afford one unless I want to marry some religious freak."

She smiles—not smirks—but smiles as if she feels happy at hearing my words. I don't understand, so I just brush it off. It seems like a better choice to change the topic. "Would you like to get another car? I use the car almost everyday to get to and fro from work. Maybe a car would benefit you too?"

Santana shrugs, "I don't really mind."

"I can get you one as long as I'm not digging out earrings from the backseat?"

She smirks and whispers, "Who knows?"

The drive home is silent. I'm tired, and she's tired. Neither of us know what to say.

—

_Santana's POV_

We finished our dinner about half an hour ago. Quinn has just dragged me up the fleet of stairs.

There's a different aura around her. It's not professional and dark and menacing. It's actually airy and maybe just the slightest hint of cute. Clearly, Hester's wonderful cooking has set her in a better mood than the entire shopping trip.

Which reminds me, from the way she eats so heartily and _so much_ at dinner, I wonder how she keeps that slim figure. I think it's the stress of her work.

Suddenly, Quinn throws open the double doors located somewhere between our two rooms. I only gawk at the sight. My jaw should have fallen off by now; I've never gawked at so many things in the short span of two days.

"Right side's mine, left side's yours. But I suppose some stuff we could share." She walks in as if it's something she does everyday. Well, it probably is.

_So this is how my life is supposed to be if I continue being successful in my own career. _I suppose marrying Quinn Fabray has its perks, even though half the time she just pretends I don't exist.

I take a step forward, eyes wide at the walk-in closet I find myself in. It's huge and with so so so so many clothes inside. On the right, there's a huge collection of dress shirts and other business-looking attire. There are a few gowns and formal-wear; I note that the black halter gown is hanging there already. On the left are all the dresses we bought for me, and the other stylistic clothing I have for interviews and public events. In the middle is a collection of casual clothes, some of which I recognize from my old wardrobe. So Quinn was serious when she said she'd have my things packed for me and ready to go.

I notice shelves by the door that hold purses, clutches, and other bags. There's an extensive collection of jewelry there, too, some of which I recognize as mine. There's also a revolving shoe rack on the other side of the door. It holds my extensive shoe collection, as well as her's. There are mirrors here and there.

_This is too fucking good to be true._

I sit myself down on the black ottoman in the middle of the closet as I try to take it all in. It's then that I notice Quinn smiling smugly at me. She seems to like it that I'm surprised by her.

"Do you like it?"

"Are you kidding me? I love it!"

"Do you…"

The way she's looking at me is different than the way she usually looks at me: she's not looking 'through' me for once. I like the way she's looking at me. The way she's looking at me makes me remember the eager eight-year-old Quinn that used to play dress-up with me. And I wasn't wrong either.

"Tana, wanna play a grown-up version of dress up?"

I playfully scoff at her, "You're so childish sometimes, Q."

"I'm merely trying to find a bit of childhood in my busy life!" The way she pouts is just too cute. And it's so not her. She's another person now. The Quinn I fell in love with, maybe?

"Alright, princess, I'll play it once with ya. Shut the doors?"

She gets right to it. That's when I realize I have to keep myself in check.

It may have been years since I've actually been in love with Quinn, but being so close to her again suddenly makes me a little scared that I'll be rekindling that little flame I had put out for the sake of my own sanity.

She walks to me, already slipping out of her dress. Instinctively I look away. I don't know why it's such a big deal, when I've watched her shower and change since we were toddlers. Even in high school, I had seen her in and out of the Cheerios' changing room. Why is it such a big deal now? She's not even fully naked.

Was it because it felt weird that she was suddenly my friend, suddenly my object of affection and infatuation, suddenly my enemy, and now suddenly my wife?

"Stop sitting there, Tana." I love the way she calls me that.

"Well, I thought you'd start the game, Tubbers."

"Don't you dare call me that," she hisses as she slips on a red jewelled gown from my collection and looks at herself in the mirror. She's frowning, so I'll assume she doesn't look as good as she thought she would. Well, I think she looks gorgeous.

"Why do you have a dress like this?"

"I wore it once for a promotional ball-thing that I can't quite remember."

"It's pretty."

"You're pretty."

I notice she looks at me weirdly for a moment, but then brushes it off again. Well, that's Quinn Fabray for you. Always brushing off anything she feels uncomfortable with.

"Would you kill me if I tried on one of your suits?"

"If I would, I wouldn't have invited you into this _childish_ game." She flashes a smile at me, rolling her eyes all the same. It makes me momentarily forget we were ever mortal enemies. I only remember the way we used to chase each other down for our favorite dresses in her sister's bedroom. And then get chastised for messing up her clothes.

The memory makes me smile. It's only then that I notice her standing in front of me, with a white suit and matching pencil skirt in hand. She's like an entirely different person in this closet.

_I don't mind spending my life with a Quinn Fabray like this one._

Wait, what? I can't think like that. This is a temporary contract and she's my wife for now but we won't be spending forever together and I can't believe this is happening and—

"Are you gonna play along or what?"

Feeling a little embarrassed at being caught wondering nonsensically at stupid things, I strip and put the suit on almost immediately. I feel heat on my cheeks. _Fuck._

When I stare into the mirror, I realize how surprisingly sexy I look in these clothes. I never knew the business look was for me. My thoughts for her evaporate for a moment, but a moment too brief.

I feel a stare directed at me, and when I looked behind myself into the mirror, I find Quinn staring at me. My lips curl into a smirk, "Like what you see?"

She doesn't answer but she blushes.

Another two hours pass in our childish entertainment and Quinn suddenly announces it's time for her get ready for bed. Was it something I said? We change out of our clothes, and into silk robes.

I note that there are colorful cloths of all textiles strewn all over the place. She doesn't seem to mind.

The way the room is so messed up feels so nostalgic. I almost expect her mother to show up at the double doors and proceed to clean the room with a permanent frown on her face.

I sigh as I walk Quinn to her bedroom as I did before. She's lost her cute and friendly self already. She's cold and composed again. The moment she walked out those double doors, it was over. It's as though the closet escapade had just been a dream. It's almost like it never happened. What happened and what didn't seems to blur in front of me. Am I delusional? Or is Quinn just plain mysterious?

"Thanks for today, San…"

"Always for you, Blondie." I know better than to question her sudden change of mood. Has she realized something I haven't?

I kiss her cheek when she turns around at her door to look at me. She repeats the same kiss she gave me on my forehead last night. I watch as she enters her room and closes the door behind her. I hear it lock, as though she's worried I'll try to follow.

I turn on my heels, a sudden feeling of emptiness washing over me. As a model, I'm always in and out of new fancy clothes. Yet somehow, it has never felt as fun as what I had done with Quinn in the evening. I guess I really do miss her. She really hasn't changed much inside. She's still Lucy Quinn Fabray. It's just that she now has a stronger mask, a more mature shell. She's a better actress. She knows how to remain cold and composed.

But she really hasn't lost that little bit of her inside that I held dear as a child.

It bothers me a little, knowing that today was probably one in a million that I'd catch Quinn without her mask.

"Quinn?"

It's Sara at the edge of the staircase, peering down the hallway to Quinn's closed door. She doesn't seem to notice me at first.

_Quinn._

I thought all the maids called her 'Mistress Fabray'. Ah, that's right, it makes more sense now, what Sara said to me last night. It's because I'm an outsider. Sara never expected me to be here. She calls Quinn 'Quinn' when there are no guests or visitors. No outsiders. I'm part of the family, but not really.

That thought hits me a little harder than I expected. It's nice to have a family again. Ever since I was thrown out of my own home for being lesbian, I've never had a real family. But with Quinn… did I feel 'family'?

"Miss?" Sara's voice cuts my thoughts off.

I smile, "Quinn's getting ready for bed."

She smiles at me curiously as I walk towards her. I think I'm looking at her with an equally curious look.

"Miss, would you want some tea?"

"I'm alright," I smile, "Say, Sara… would you have a few minutes to talk to me?"

Her brows furrow, but her smile remains, "Have I done something wrong, miss?"

"No, no!" I laugh softly, leading her towards my room, "I just wanted to know what you know about Quinn and I." It was a daring move, but now that I was technically as much of a 'mistress' as Quinn was, I supposed I could question my own servants.

"Well, we all know that you are here on legal terms. And that you two must be treated as a couple if there are guests."

I nod and my silence urges her to continue.

"That's all."

My smile falters. So Quinn hasn't said anything about our past? What was I even hoping for? Quinn didn't have a thing for me, not the way I had a thing for her. _Had._ I remind myself that the word is in past-tense. I'm no longer in love with Quinn Fabray. I haven't been in love with Quinn Fabray for a long long time.

Sara speaks up suddenly, just before I reach the door of my room, her voice earnest and a little wistful, a twinkle shimmering in the corner of her eye, "Miss, it's really nice of you to stay. Quinn's never been this carefree."


	5. Chapter 5

_Reviews=Love. And I could do with a bit of love, I've been having a bad week:(_

_Hope you all enjoy this, darlings!_

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**Chapter 5**

_Quinn's POV_

It's the little things. It's always the little things. It's always in that tiny touch, that split second, that one moment, that one glance.

I know I'm not attracted to Santana. I simply can't be. I'm straight. But whenever I'm with her, I feel so comfortable. It's like she's capable of stripping me naked and I don't even bother to fight back. That was probably the worst analogy I could ever have come up with.

That's also why I'm constantly seeking to bite her. Again, bad word choice. I'd rather be harsh to her to keep me sane.

I know for sure now why she's been dubbed "world-class playgirl" by most the city. She has this naturally magnetic force around her. She pulls people in.

Having made my very stupid mistake of not doing a proper background check on Santana, I had spent the night after our shopping trip pouring over gossip magazines and youtube trying to find out more about her professional life.

The first thing I noticed was that she looked even finer than she did in highschool. She has toned muscles, and every curve on her is well defined. It's no surprise she made it this far in her modelling career. What's surprising is that I didn't notice before.

Another thing is that she is so actively out of the closet. In almost every magazine, there's a photo of her holding the hand or kissing the cheek of another nameless girl. There's one thing I've noticed, but I don't know whether it's just coincidence or not: none of those photos have her with a blonde girl that had natural golden hair. All the blonde girls that are in the photos have dyed their hair one way or another, be it pink, brown, green, blue.

See, it's that kind of little thing that I notice.

For the third time this week, I'm lying on my bed with all these magazines strewn around me, trying to dig out every little bit of information I can about Santana. Gossip magazines are probably not the best choice for accurate information, especially when I have the real person in my house, but I figure it's the least boring start of all.

_Lopez sets eyes on clothing designer!_

_ Heartbreaker making her rounds again!_

_ Who'll be the next victim of our favorite playgirl?_

_ Will it be make or break this time with new celeb Dani?_

_ Lopez caught kissing behind the scenes?_

_ New girl caught in the L-trap!_

These titles all sound sucky. I'm sure if I was the journalist, I could write better titles, but this wasn't real journalism anyways. Most of it was probably creative writing.

There's a sudden knock on the door that makes me jump and slam the magazine shut. It's a two-time knock. None of my maids knock like that. It's always a quick three-time knock. I know who it is, but I'll still ask.

"Who is it?"

"It's me."

Santana's voice is muffled through the door. I don't want to risk having her come in and seeing me shamelessly staring at her legs through photos.

"Hang on, I'm coming."

She waits outside like she's supposed to, and I hastily get my slippers on and shuffle towards the door. I'm glad that she at least respects me enough to not trespass into the territory of my room. It's really unlike her, though, to let me have this much privacy. It makes me wonder if she's actually already been in here on her own.

I open the door just enough so I can slip out without her seeing anything in my room. I don't want her to think I have some sort of 'Santana-shrine' in there. I don't.

"What is it?" I sound a little impatient. I want to go back to staring at her ass. I mean looking through her profiles and dating habits according to the media.

"Your father called."

Her tone is hushed as she looks at me with an earnest gaze.

"Russel," I correct. He's no father to me. "What did he say?"

"Russel," she repeats, "he called, saying he's coming tonight instead of tomorrow night. He's landed at the airport, actually."

"What?" I practically screech. Santana visibly recoils. "Shit! Does Hester know? Get her to make something quick? Like midnight-snack-ish thing? Can you tell Eliza to fix up the garden and get some flowers in the dining room? And tell Mia to go clean up my room? And then you come join me in the closet?"

"I thought you ought to be coming out of the closet, not walking straight into one." A grin breaks out on her face.

I want to punch her. Now is not a time for joking, "No, seriously."

Her expression softens into an apologetic smile, "I'll get to it, Q. Wait for me there?"

I hurry off before I even give a response. She heads down the stairs to do what I told her to.

I almost break the double doors as I push through with such force. I'm filled with energy now, but it's not excitement. It's fear, more than anything.

Control. It's no longer here.

I'm nervous as I search through my clothes. I need to look presentable, but not too flamboyant. Not a single piece seems to fit the occasion. I had taken a half-day off tomorrow so I could come home after lunch to sort my closet and everything else out. But now I have about an hour. I don't really hear the door opening and closing. I don't realize Santana's in here till I feel two strong hands holding my own. I don't quite realize that my hands are shaking until she tries to steady them either.

"Quinn, calm down."

I don't look at Santana. My eyes are focused on my fingers. Why the fuck am I shaking, and shaking in front of Santana too. I see her tighten her hold on me, but I don't really feel it. I'm trying to slow my breathing, slow my heart rate.

She does the opposite for me as she suddenly hugs me close.

I feel like screaming, but no noise comes out. Somehow her embrace is comforting, even though it makes my heart race in the most abnormal way. Im still shaking in her arms, but I'm shaking less.

"Pull yourself together, Quinn. We'll get through this together."

Again, the little things. Together. Since when did Santana and I last have a moment of 'together'? But now is not the time to worry about little things.

She releases me and I almost cringe at the loss of the warmth. But then, of course, I remember I oughtn't.

"How should we be dressing?"

"Formal. No cleavage, no short skirts, presentable, not too flamboyant, avoid red—he thinks its the color of the devil—black too; blue, purple and white are holy colors so those will get you off better and—"

"Slow down…" I turn around from the row of hangers to find her staring at me with a look of concern. I realize I was stuttering and babbling. I'm really scared. That thought scares me even more. I don't want to wheel out of control now…

"I don't know what I'm doing," I blurt out, feeling like a child again.

"I barely know what we're doing, but I know we'll make do. You can get through anything. And I can too. We're both strong, and together, we're unbreakable."

_Are we?_

I stay standing, thinking about what she's said. At last, she pulls out two outfits and hands one of them to me. It's a deep purple pencil skirt matched with a white blouse. It looks absolutely business-like.

"Is this okay? And I'll be wearing something similar but with dark blue instead?"

I nod, barely aware of what I'm doing. I've always feared Russel, but today, because I'm coming out of the closet, my fear has just increased exponentially.

I'm only half aware as she begins to undress me, helping my arm through the sleeves, and buttoning up the blouse. Nothing is really registering in my head.

Santana sits me down on a lone chair by the door as she dresses herself. My subconsciousness tells me now is the prime time to be checking her out, seeing if any of those magazines have her photoshopped, but to me, she's become a sun-kissed blur. I'm not really seeing anything even though I'm looking.

"Quinn?" Santana has a hand offered to me. I think I take it, because the next thing I feel is the feeling of myself being pulled to my feet. She offers me a pair of heels, elegant, but not too high. This prevents me from tripping over myself in my nervousness. I'm silently grateful that she is here with me.

Just before we open the doors and step out to prepare ourselves for the unwelcome intrusion, she slips a silver ring on my finger and pulls me into another hug. This time, I let myself relax. I let myself go. I let her hold me, and I let myself enjoy it.

Her touch is warm, it's caring, it's loving. And it's all a lie. I'm not falling in love with this woman.

For a moment, I can think clearly, and I realize I don't remember having bought rings for us, but I suppose she found it somewhere in the closet… did she?

When I pull away, Santana does something totally unexpected. She kisses me, on the lips. No funny business, just a soft peck. It's chaste, short, and yet it tells me so much. I feel like she actually cares.

_This is dangerous territory. Unchartered, unknown._

I blush, but I decide not to comment. The doors are opened, and she takes my hand in hers as we walk down the stairs.

I'm not shaking anymore.

In silence, we sit side by side in the dining room. The silence is agonizing, but it's the ringing in my ears that's driving me crazy.

Our four maids are busying themselves with last minute preparations. Santana is holding my hand under the table. It's strangely comforting, the way she rubs her thumb on the back of my hand.

The grandfather clock ticks loudly, the pendulum's gentle sway hypnotising. The clock strikes eleven.

Each metallic clang reminds me of how close I'm coming to my end. I feel like I'll be lucky to get out of this alive. I instinctively tighten my grip on Santana's hand.

From the corner of my eye, I see her turning her head slightly to look at me. I know I'm wearing a poker face. I'm blank, and I want to be.

She laces our fingers together.

At that moment, a ring sounds from the kitchen. The doorbell is hooked into the servant's quarters. I jump. She notices.

"Come on, let's go." She's the first to respond, and she stands up, ready to walk to the door. She's still holding my hand.

I nod in silence, my body rigid, stiff, and hurting in all the wrong places. I stand up and let her pull me along. When Mia opens the door, I force a smile to greet the all-too-familiar figure in front of me.

Santana lets go of my hand, and I'm thankful that she knows what she's doing.

Russel steps in without a word, handing his coat and hat to Mia, who takes it with her head down, gaze downward. She knows how Russel works, and she knows it is better to stay mute in front of him.

He walks past me as though I don't exist. He doesn't even throw an extra glance at the new addition of Santana beside me.

My mother walks in behind him, smiling at me apologetically. She mouths a quick 'sorry', before turning to look at Santana for a moment.

"I didn't know you had company tonight, Quinnie. Sorry we came with such short notice," she takes my hand, pulling me into my own dining room, only a couple of steps behind Russel. I look over my shoulder anxiously to find Santana following behind in silence.

"Um… I… She's not really company, I'll exp-"

"Quinn Fabray, God gave you legs. Use them and walk a little faster." His voice is stern, and it sends chills to my heart. It makes my mother let go of me, scampering to the side of the wooden table where Russel is on, and Santana resumes her place beside me.

For the first time since he's entered the house, Russel notices Santana from the corner of his eye. His countenance remains unchanged, though. To him, she's just another person who doesn't matter.

We are all standing awkwardly around the table. My heart is beating out of my chest. Santana is studying Russel with a subtle glare. My mother is obviously nervous, trying to find a conversation topic. My father is just staring at me, as though he was trying to remember who I was.

The one thing I know for sure, I refuse to be his daughter.

"Why don't we all take a seat?" It's Santana's optimistic tone that saves us all. We all pull out our own chairs and sit down.

This feels like a board meeting. It's so formal, everyone is dressed in work-worthy clothes. This is no family reunion. This is no family.

In truth, more than anything, it feels like a funeral. My funeral.

Hester comes out of the kitchen, setting some hot soup onto the table. She sets a bowl and a spoon in front of Russel first, then my mother, then me, then Santana. I'm glad she still remembers what to do when there are not-so-welcome-'visitors' around. She takes a quick bow, before rushing back to the kitchen.

I watch nervously as Santana reaches for her spoon. I pray Russel doesn't notice.

Thankfully, he doesn't. He closes his eyes, bellowing a prayer. I'm not listening. Mother has her eyes closed. Santana is looking at me and I'm looking back at her. She can read in my eyes that she _almost _ screwed this up. She mouths a 'sorry' and I nod.

She smiles at me, and it instantly warms my heart.

As abruptly as Russel began the prayer, he finished. He picked up his own spoon in silence, and dipped it in the soup. We all follow suit.

The only sound in the dining room is the ticking of the grandfather clock and the clinking of our spoons on the silverware.

I know I need to talk, I need to tell him Santana is my wife. I need to tell myself that first, though. Even though the document is signed, I'm no less confused than anyone else.

Santana is watching me from the corner of her eye. Her left hand reaches down and rests itself on my thigh for a fleeting moment.

It's silent encouragement.

Well, they say keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

As estranged as we have become, she still knows me the best.

As I finish my soup, I set the spoon down, pick up a napkin, and dab at my lips. I begin to worry about smudged lipstick, but then I remember that I don't have much make up on. Thankfully, neither does Santana. Cosmetics, according to Russel, are the work of a devil to cover natural beauty.

I shoot a look at my mother, who is also finishing up. Her hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and she's wearing the pearl necklace I bought her last year for mother's day.

I note the soft 'clink' coming from Santana as she finishes her soup.

Russel is taking forever. But this is a forever I want to never end. When he is done, I will have to speak.

The ticking of the grandfather clock grows louder and louder in my ears. I place my hands on my lap, folded in the most lady-like manner.

Santana reaches down, discreetly reaching for my hand. As she laces our fingers together, I feel a little safer. Even if all hell breaks loose, at least one person will be on my side.

Forever doesn't last. It never does. Russel puts down his spoon.

We're all expecting someone else to speak up first, so all of us are silent for a good three minutes, just shooting glances (or glares) at each other at the table.

The air hangs heavy. I can barely breathe.

Again, it's my mother who attempts to make things a little less awkward, "Quinnie, dear, how have you been?"

"Fine," I say, but it comes out in more of a squeak. Santana tightens her grip on my hand, and I force another smile, "Great, really. I've been getting many clients."

"Ah, I could tell by the Porsche I saw outside," my mother's smile is warming, but nevertheless, it makes me uneasy. Her smile is obviously no less forced than my own.

"What is Santana doing here." Russel's voice is cold, rude, uncaring. I'm surprised he even remembers her from high school.

Santana opens her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it, "She lives here."

"You never mentioned a roommate."

"Roommates are nice!" My mother pips in. I'm grateful that she tries to make things better, but Russel is practically ignoring her.

"I bought this house with my own money, I'm allowed to choose who I live with." I look straight at him, my back straight, my head held high. _Think business, _I tell myself.

He judges her with an unfazed glare. She glares back with equal the intensity. Sometimes, Santana makes me feel proud.

I raise my voice a little, "She's not my roommate."

"Housemate then?" My mother looks a little desperate. She's catching on faster than Russel is. Maybe Russel has caught on, maybe he's denying it.

"What is she?"

_'What'? _How rude could he get? Clearly, Santana is a 'who', and even though at times, I hate her, I still regard her as a person. Santana, however, doesn't seem bothered at all.

I take a deep breath."My partner."

Mother looks so nervous, I suddenly feel a little worried that she will melt down into a puddle. Physically. Somehow, though, she manages to gather a smile and laugh a nervous chuckle, "Ooh, business partner? Santana, dear, I didn't know you took law too!" She's being over-affectionate now, therefore making my case look weaker and more suspicious. I wish she wouldn't try to make things better though, it's not really helping.

Russell obviously isn't buying a word of all this shit.

No choice.

I look down, glancing at the silver band on my finger. I muster up all my courage, all my strength, and I stand up, still holding Santana's hand, "Santana Lopez is my wife. We're married."

Then, of course, all hell breaks loose.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello darlings! Alright, so I'm posting early because in a week from today I shall already be in a land of no internet. So I'm posting today, and then once more this week before I leave, since next week's update will be a teensy bit late:( I'm sorry, please don't hate me!_

_I'm sorry if this chapter's grammatical or spelling or overall quality isn't as good as usual. I'm sick, and wish I could rip my nose off to stop it from dripping. It's also giving me a stuffed up head and ears and so I'm tired and really ought to be sleeping already._

_But anyways, thanks to everyone who has reviews/favorited/followed this fic! I'm at exactly 100 reviews now, with just 5 chapters, and that, to me is a hugeeeee thing! _

_In regards to a question a Guest reviewer asked about how many chapters this fic will be... Approximately 30 I believe... I may (or may not) start updating more frequently during the summer months. No promises, but I'll try to!_

_Anyways, there is a TRIGGER WARNING for this chapter: there will be mentions of abortion. If you feel uncomfortable with reading this chapter, send me a message, and I'll be more than happy to send you a summary of this chapter! Or just the chapter without that bit! :)_

_Please enjoy, and as usual, reviews are love!_

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**Chapter 6**

_Santana's POV_

"Santana Lopez is my wife. We're married."

I hear those words but I'm only faintly aware of what they mean. I'm too focused on glaring daggers at Russel. His face turns multiple shades darker, his features tenfold meaner. Suddenly, what Quinn just said comes crashing to me.

She just did it. She just "came out of the closet". That explains why Russel's focus is now entirely on her and not on me. He's such a bastard.

"Say that again?" He grits his teeth as he hisses. His words are venomous and I see Quinn wanting to recoil and hide. I can't let her lose this battle though. If this battle was one between her and me, hell yes, I'd let her lose, but this battle is between her and Russel, who I also happen to hate, so she has to win. She's my girl after all.

I tighten my grip on her hand, standing up with her. I catch Judy's expression in the corner of my eye. She looks like a mouse. I know she wants to speak up, I can tell, but fear overrides her common sense. She's silent, her lips in a tight smile. She's watching Russel's every movement, and she looks ready to duck or dash.

Just as I conclude that this whole situation will very likely end with a 'dash' on Judy's behalf, Russel stands up, his fists landing on the table with such great force that it shakes. The table is hell heavy, but it's shaking with enough force to make the bowls and spoons clatter. Complete with his heavy breathing, this cacophony of tingling utensils makes it hard to concentrate on Quinn.

I notice her fingers shaking in my hand. I see fear run behind her eyes. She's not showing it, really, and I don't think Russel has noticed it, but I have. I pull her closer, letting go of her hand and holding her by the waist. It's both for emotional and physical support. She's going weak, and she's ready to sink any time.

She takes a deep breath, looking down at the table for a moment before she brings her head up high again, "I'm in love with Santana Lopez. I married her. We're married."

He practically starts to roar, "You're telling me you're fucking lesbian?! I thought the whole entire almost-baby thing was the worst you could ever get!"

A flash of hurt runs across her face. Quinn is calm, but she suddenly seems really bothered and begins to raise her voice, too. "The almost-baby thing? Don't even get me started on that! If it wasn't for you, I'd still have her!"

I don't quite understand her statement, but I suppose it's something to guilt Russel. And it works, because for a moment, he has shock written all over his pathetic face.

Judy opens her mouth to speak, but she really doesn't have a chance.

"You're a faggot. God hates faggots."

"No, he doesn't! He hates people who discriminate so-called faggots because he created everyone equal!"

"No, when you choose to become lesbian, you're not worth anything!"

"You don't choose," I interject, as Quinn's face becomes increasingly red, "Look, I seduced your daughter, so if you're really so intent on hating someone, you can hate on me."

Quinn looks at me subtly with a little bit of confusion. I wonder what the confusion is for. This is all an act.

"You keep your mouth shut when I talk to Quinn. She's not my fucking daughter. Not anymore."

"What happened to 'speaking words of encouragement or wisdom or something, and not hurting people with your tongue'?" I speak with a scathing glare. I know enough of the Bible to bite back. For the first time ever, I feel like the Sunday School lessons Russel's tried (and failed) to teach me actually are of some use.

Russel has evidently turned his attention on me now, which is good, because I'm tougher than Quinn and can take more of his blows.

I look down to keep my cool and stop myself from jumping over the table and punching him. I notice Quinn's fingers clutching the fabric of my skirt. It's kind of cute, how she depends on me.

"What do you know, you child of the devil?"

I laugh coldly and stare him down, "More than someone who's stopped loving his daughter because she's different."

He's studying me with his eyes. I know he wants to rip me apart. I won't let him. And I'm not gonna let him rip Quinn apart either. Why? Because she doesn't deserve it. She's a bitch sometimes, yes, but not even the people on the top of my hate-list should have to suffer from being torn apart by one Russel-demon.

"It's your fault, woman," Russel has turned his anger on Judy. He's too much of a pussy to pick a proper fight with me.

"Russel, just because you weren't around the house most the time to take care of Qu—"

"It's not her fault." Quinn's voice cuts in, "If anything, it's yours because you're the one who left mom and me for another woman, _adulterer._" She's bitter, it's easy to tell from her voice.

Russel is silent, fuming like a volcano ready to erupt. Judy looks a little bit lost. I know I have a permanent scowl on my face, and Quinn, of course, looks strong. But she's ready to break inside.

Suddenly, Russel makes a quick movement, storming around the table. He grabs Quinn by the arm, taking her from my hold and she half-screams in pain. "Young woman, you are coming back with me to my home. I'm taking you to church to get your damn mind in the right place!" He has a death grip, and Quinn groans in pain and frustration. To me, it seems like his rough hands could break her arm like a twig. I tense.

He proceeds to drag her, as she is struggling in vain, towards the exit of the living room. But I'm faster than he is, and I leap to the entrance, blocking it.

"Over my dead body." I narrow my eyes, hissing the words. To him, I must really seem like a serpent.

"Don't tell me what to do with my daughter!"

"You already said she wasn't your daughter, not anymore! She's mine now! She's my wife and I love her!"

Quinn stops struggling, stops groaning, and almost stops breathing. She's staring straight into my eyes. I look back at her. I don't understand her. I don't think this is the time for me to think about why she's looking so confused either. I simply look at her.

Even though her hair is sticking up in the wrong places, her face in a frown, her state weak and desperate, she looks really pretty.

_Wait, what?_

Russel drops Quinn's arm, and I bite back a string of insults as I see the bruise that's already on her flawless skin. I want to kill him.

"We'll see how long your love lasts when Quinn marries a _man_ in three months."

"I'm not marrying anyone but Santana." She has walked to my side is holding my hand. Together, we stand, blocking the exit.

"Oh, you fucking are. Remember our little contract?" His cruel lips morph into a sly smirk.

"Of course."

"You're not properly married. A lesbian marriage is no marriage. You're marrying a pastor of my choice, and that will set you straight!"

Quinn's laugh is chilling, "Lesbian marriages are legally recognized in New York. And I'm sorry, Mr. Fabray. I happened to notice that your lawyer may or may not have forgotten to state the gender I need to be wed to in order to get out of your hell."

The blood suddenly drains from Russel's face, and he looks almost comical as he explodes, "What?!"

"You heard it, buddy. You only said she has to be married. Doesn't say to what gender. So she's my wife and she will happily remain so!" I put my arm around Quinn again, pulling her into me. She seems to stand a little taller, look a little stronger. I kiss her on the cheek.

"You little—"

"Leave." Quinn's voice is strong, loud, and she says this singular word that unfreezes all of our bodies. It's as though she's suddenly much stronger, with not a hint of fear. Quinn is quite the little actress I always knew her to be.

I move aside, taking Quinn with me, to let Russel pass through. Judy's stayed back though, but she's not half as lethal as Russel, so I don't really mind.

"This won't be the end, Quinn Fabray."

"If you're making enemies with her, you making enemies with me, too. If we do fight, you'll have no idea what hit you. I'll see you to the door, Mr. Fabray." I follow behind a cursing and swearing man, stepping firmly into the ground with each and every step. Mia runs out with his coat and hat, which he grabs with one fluent motion. As she retreats to the background, I open the door for him, escorting him out with one of my signature smirks accompanied by menacing glares. I want to grab something nearby—anything—and slit his throat or mutilate his body. Go all Lima Heights on him. I fume silently, though.

He walks straight out without much of a word. He doesn't look back.

When I close the front door and lock it, I watch from the peephole as he exits the gate in the front again. I'm rather thankful nothing bloody broke out.

I know if he had uttered one more insult, held Quinn's arm with one single Newton more force, I would have leaped to my feet and wrung his neck.

No one messes with my girl.

I let my blood simmer down a little before I head back towards Quinn and her mother. A few deep breaths, and I feel my sanity coming back. I may still be somewhat red in the face and hot in the head, but at least I can deal with things calmly now.

As I return to the dining room, I stop short at the door. Judy has her arms around Quinn, who's shaking shoulders tell me she's crying. So she's broken down already. It breaks my heart, but I'm glad to know that the storm has passed.

Judy seems to faintly notice my existence in the room. She raises her head, smiles at me, and the smile is warm.

I take that as an affirmative that I can come into their little bubble.

To my surprise, Quinn practically lunges herself at me as soon as she notices me, hugging me tight. Although I'm slightly in shock, I hold her back. I let her calm down as I stroke through her hair. She's stifling her sobs, my shoulder already wet from her tears.

Judy leans back onto the table, her eyes showing a bit of curiosity as she looks at us. Quinn and I must make a really odd-looking couple. I mean, we're both hot and beautiful… but does that make us a good-looking couple? Or do we maybe look cute?

"Why wasn't I invited to the ceremony?"

"Uh…" Judy's voice is kind but her question takes me by surprise, "That's because I'm Quinn's contrac—"

"We're married legally," Quinn interjects with a shaky voice, "Like certificate and stuff, but we never had a ceremony…"

"I see."

Judy doesn't question us. I'm glad she doesn't. Quinn's head is still buried in the crook of my neck, clearly not wanting to answer more questions. I don't know how to answer the questions if they're fired at me, so I'm just thankful she doesn't ask.

I suddenly realize Quinn wants to keep up the fake marriage in front of her own mother as well. Then I must play along.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask your blessing before I asked Quinn to marry me," I murmur softly, leaning my head towards Quinn's, "I was scared you and Mr. Fabray wouldn't take it well."

Judy smiles at me, "I would have appreciated your asking, but I can give you my blessing now! Welcome into the family, Santana."

I smile back, relieved that she's practically taken me in already. "Thank you, Mrs. Fabray."

"Now change that to 'mom' and try again." Her eyes twinkle.

"Thank you, mom~" The words roll off my tongue effortlessly, but it feels really weird inside. Weirdly comfortable.

"Should I leave now, so you and Quinn can have the rest of the night to yourself?"

"No, it's okay, you don't have to," Quinn raises her head from my shoulder. I catch a faint whiff of her shampoo. The smell suites her really well. And it's calming.

"No, darling, it's alright. Sorry Russel was so hard on you tonight. You know he's just like that."

"It's not your fault, ma. He's just being him. I expected worse." Quinn's whisper is adorable.

"At least no one's really hurt," Judy flashes another smile at me, before heading out towards the corridor, "goodnight, girls. I'll call you up before I fly back to Lima and maybe we can have a girls' day out?"

"Maybe. Goodnight, ma."

"I'll see myself out, girls. Thanks for the soup! Let your cook know she's amazing!"

I listen as footsteps fade away with the soft shutting of a door.

My racing heart begins to slow down—that is, until I realize I'm still hugging Quinn. Immediately, I loosen my hold on her. She's her own now that we're back alone in the house. She isn't mine, and will never be. She shouldn't be.

To my surprise, she tightens her hold on me. Her voice is really soft, but I can hear her whispering my name. I put my arms back around her and hold her close once more.

"Don't leave me."

It's really weird sometimes, the way she suddenly just blurts out these few words or just gives me one look. Quinn is really mysterious, and what she says and does often confuses me endlessly.

"I promise."

We stay hugging in the dining room for a long time. The grandfather clock struck twelve shortly after Judy left. After the strikes, we were left standing in the muted ticking of the ancient thing.

Her body sags against mine after a while. She's utterly drained from that one hour. It's honestly felt like it was longer.

"Take a day off work tomorrow, alright? You need to replenish your energy…"

Quinn only nods weakly, raising her head to look at me. She looks at least two decades older than she really is.

"I'll walk you up to your room?"

She pulls herself away from me, and I take her hand and lead her out of the dining room and up the stairs.

We're silent, and even though I want to tell her everything is okay, I don't. I think she'd rather me be silent. I'm an eyesore to her, now that her bigger eyesore named Russel is gone.

I know she can't wait to get me out of this house. On the contrary, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll even want to leave.

Everything is so rich and pretty, and it makes me want to stay. But I would be okay without all these things too, as long as I still could be around Quinn.

Quinn stops in her tracks and I almost crash into her because I'm too lost in my thoughts to notice where we're going.

The almost-crash is so deja vu, but Quinn seems completely different from the last time I almost crashed into her. She was haughty, and ready to make me know who was boss around this house. This time, she looks like a scolded puppy, her eyes puffy, nose red, lip quivering.

"What's wrong?"

"Do you have work tomorrow?"

"Nope."

"Can we talk?"

Half of me dreads that this is 'the talk'. This is where she'll tell me that we're done acting, I can leave now. I don't want to go. I want to be by her. I mean, in this house with everything around me.

I'm contradicting myself, and I know it's just so I can remain in denial about liking being around Quinn.

Still, I nod.

She tightens her grip on my hand and we walk the opposite way to my room. Her hand rests on my doorknob, and she looks at me, as if asking for permission to enter my room. I nod gently.

As soon as we're in my room she plops herself on my bed, leaving me to shut the door.

"What's wrong?" I ask again, turning around and walking towards her. She's sitting on the edge of my bed and patting the space beside her. I take a seat as told.

"Do you know how I lost the baby?"

_Oh. _So this is what the talk is about_. _I find myself breathing a sigh of relief. I'm not supposed to be this relieved that it isn't time to kick me out of the house yet though. I don't want to know why I'm relieved. "You had a miscarriage right?" I reach out to take her hand, and she doesn't pull away. I entwine our fingers, offering her silent support.

"I told everyone that… Well, I told JBI that, he did the rest of the job."

"Yea, I heard it from other people," I nod as she averts her gaze from me.

"It's not true."

"Oh?" Suddenly, I can piece together what she screamed at Russel earlier. Well, barely, but I can sort of move the puzzle pieces around a bit now.

"I haven't told anyone else before. I don't know why, but I want to tell you."

I nod again.

"You won't tell another soul?"

"Of course not."

She pauses to look into my eyes. Her own are swimming with emotions, glazed over in pain. An angel like her doesn't deserve such suffering. "Russel made me get rid of the baby. Like, abortion."

Her words are filled with acute pain. It surprises me, but it really shouldn't have. I tighten my hold on her hand and I feel her leaning her head onto my shoulder.

"He disowned me. But then he told me that he'd take me back in if I got rid of _her._ I kind of had to. He could ruin my life if I didn't…" Her voice cracked like she was on the verge of tears again.

I gave a soft sigh, leaning in to kiss her forehead, "You knew it was a girl?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry to hear that Russel made you do it…" I speak sincerely, and I think she knows that, "I'm sure, though, she's another pretty little face running around in heaven."

"She's just a foetus."

"So? If she takes after her mother, she's gonna be a beautiful foetus."

Quinn raises her head, looking at me with an unreadable expression. I offer a weak smile, realizing what I have just said. I don't want to take those words back, though.

After a good minute, she rests her head on my shoulder again, "I wish I didn't let her go."

"I know," I murmur, "but you had to, right? It was better, wasn't it? So don't blame yourself…"

"I really wish I could at least have seen her… held her…" She's choking back tears again. For some reason, it's making my heart sting.

"Shh… She's in a good place now, alright?"

"Do you really think she's in heaven?"

"I'm as sure as I am about me going to hell after I die."

She giggles a little in silent agreement that I really should go to hell, even though it sounds a teeny bit forced. Normally, I'd tell her that she was probably nowhere better off than I was, but I don't want to sound cruel or mean tonight, as I often was and is.

We don't touch on the topic again, so I simply hold her close in silence for a long time. Her body relaxes and then I begin to worry she'll fall asleep in my arms. It's not a bad thing but…

I sigh softly, "Do you feel better?"

Her voice is small and muffled. Quinn sounds reluctant about answering. "Yeah… should I go back to my room so you can get a good night's rest?"

"No, you don't have to," I smile at her softly, "we can stay here and do something to keep your mind off of tonight's events."

"Like…?" she raises an eyebrow. Her cheeks are still a little tearstained, her eyes a little puffy. Her cheeks are turning pink.

"No, I don't mean it sexually," I snort, "I was thinking maybe a game or a movie, or something. You did put a pretty big flatscreen TV in my room."

"Movie then," she sighs with an adorable smile. I feel happy to know that she's not desperate to get away from me. Even I have to admit, having her around is pretty good company when she's docile and not waiting to strangle me.

"What do you want to watch?"

"I saw you had a box of movies when the movers got your stuff in. Can I take a look?"

Hesitation steps in for a brief moment, "Um… sure… They're over there, by the bookshelf."

She laughs as she walks towards the bookshelf. Her laugh is musical, but its unnatural. Poor thing, trying so hard to be happy… She's good at pretending, I suppose… but no one should ever have to _pretend _to have a good life? How much of her life has she spent trying to be happy? Trying to pretend she's happy?

"I bought you a bookshelf for books, Santana, not movies!"

"Close enough," I retort, pointing to the bottom of the bookcase, "That last row is filled with books!"

"And the other six aren't!" She begins to scan the titles with her head cocked to the right. "Why are half your movies Disney or Pixar related? Or romantic comedies. And then there's this section on romantic tragedies…" She whips around to look at me. "What happened to the tough Santana I knew that only ever watched horror movies?"

I bite my lip as she judges me. To my surprise, her words don't hateful or mocking, so it doesn't hurt. That's how I can tell she's just using her judgemental self to hide the pain. "They're on the top-most row. Just because you're too short to read the titles there doesn't mean they don't exist!"

"You're shorter than me!"

"Am not!"

"Just because you're in heels all the time doesn't make you taller than me!"

I let out a small laugh as she pouts. She's being the closet-Quinn again. It's like how we were as kids. Just as we used to play dress-up, we used to argue who was taller, and watch movies together. I realize she does it when she feels truly happy or when she feels insecure.

"How about this one?" Quinn has pulled out a dvd case. I must look really distant all of a sudden, because she suddenly frowns and asks me if I'm alright.

I snap back to reality and nod. "Bring it over?" I don't really see what she's chosen, but it's I'll let her choose a movie without my judgement to feel better.

She instinctively moves to the dvd player and puts the disc in. While she sets up the movie, I prop the few pillows on my bed against the headboard. I then undress, stripping down to only my thong, and then pull a robe over myself.

"Do you have a shirt I can borrow in here?" I turn around to see Quinn two feet away from me. It makes me wonder how long she's been standing there, leering at my ass. I have to admit, I am pretty damn hot, but Quinn staring at me…

"Um… Yea, a loose t-shirt, that 'kay?"

"Yea, it'd be perfect." I walk towards the drawers in my room and dig for a shirt. There aren't many articles of clothing in my room, really. Just the personal items, underwear, bras and the occasional casual-wear like an old t-shirt or a pair of shorts that I decided I never wanted to see Quinn in because they're too short. That's that kind of stuff that I keep in my 'wardrobe'. Everything I'm willing to share, I keep it in the walk-in closet.

I toss her a shirt, which she promptly catches. When I turn around, she's just unbuttoned her blouse, and let her skirt slip to the floor.

She's in my room with only panties and a bra.

Quinn Fabray. In my room. With only panties and a bra.

If this was just before my freshmen year, or even before Britt-Britt, I'd have taken Quinn against the wall again. But then again, it isn't, so I just try to stare subtly.

To my surprise, she unclasps her bra as well and tosses it aside. I note that it lands perfectly on a chair in the corner of my room. And then I realize that I have the full view of Quinn's breasts. I'm barely aware that my gaze is lingering there. It's perfect. Her breasts are full and beautiful. I want to touch them. Mark them, maybe.

Faded yellow cloth shades her perfection from my view. I want to open my mouth and protest, but then I remember we're just friends. I shouldn't be complaining that I can't see her boobs.

I wonder if she saw me looking. Nothing in her face tells me she's noticed. Nothing's told me she's oblivious either.

"What are you waiting for? Are you watching with me or what?" Quinn's climbing into my covers already, taking a seat on the left side of the bed. There isn't a smile on her face, but there isn't quite a frown either. I can't decide whether or not she's feeling truly happy with me in this room. Her voice is laced with the slightest hint of a smile, but I don't trust it.

Quinn pats the empty space to her right. So she still remembers that I've always liked taking the right side of the bed.

It used to be because the left side of her childhood bed was placed directly against a wall, and I just felt better thinking I was capable of protecting her if the door opened. Since people can't walk through walls to get to her, I positioned myself between her and the door whenever we had sleepovers.

It's kind of stupid, now to think of it.

Still, something in me tingles because she remembers. Well, it could just be coincidence… but… I stop my train of thoughts as I take my place under the blanket beside Quinn. She moves a little closer to me. She's warm.

With a lazy press of the remote control, the TV flickers on.

_Lady and the Tramp._ Quinn Fabray chose _Lady and the Tramp._

Usually, I believe in coincidences, but so many in a row is too much. We used to watch this movie _all the tim_e_, _especially during our childhood sleepovers.

We knew all the songs and used to sing them all together. Quinn had a beautiful voice. I wonder if it still sounds the same… I haven't heard it since we graduated from Mckinley.

I feel a weight on my shoulder and I find Quinn's head there again. I don't mind her leaning into me. It's super deja vu, because that's what we did as children.

I can't decide whether she's deliberately trying to recreate part of her past, our childhood, before her world spun out of control, or if this is all a coincidence.

Under the blanket, my fingers absentmindedly find hers, and we hold hands. She doesn't reject the touch.

It's really weird how this all really feels like our past. Maybe because it's a time that I really cherished. It's a time when I loved Quinn in a friendly way, but was loved back. Before things became complicated.

I can tell Quinn's really into the movie because she doesn't notice that I'm not really watching. My eyes are landing everywhere except for on Quinn and on the tv.

I'm a little too lost in thought to really realize what I'm watching, or what I'm doing. The next thing I'm actually conscious of if Quinn repositioning herself so she's sitting upright and humming the notes to what I recognize to be the beginning of "Bella Notte". The spaghetti scene.

That scene and that song is actually my favourite part of the whole movie. It's sweet, kinda cute, and I kinda wanna try it with Quinn. No, no, no, take that back, I do _not_ want to try it with Quinn. Well, I do want to try it with someone I love. I was going to do it with Brittany… but… yeah, why didn't I remember this when I watched the movie with Britt-Britt?

I find myself starting to sing the song with the Italian guy. It's a nice song, sweet, soft, romantic. It surprises me, though, to hear Quinn's voice joining mine. It's still as sweet as I remembered it to be.

_Oh this is the night, it's a beautiful night_

_And we call it bella notte_

_Look at the skies, they have stars in their eyes_

_On this lovely bella notte._

_Side by side with your loved one,_

_You'll find enchantment here._

_The night will weave its magic spell,_

_When the one you love is near!_

_Oh this is the night, and the heavens are right!_

_On this lovely bella notte!_

As our voices harmonize for the last few lines of the song, I happen to catch Quinn's gaze. Those hazel eyes seem to flicker with emotion—not with the distinct look of utter despair, but with a small glimmering hope and maybe a hint of _something_ else. She looks beautiful, and she looks like the Quinn I used to know.

Suddenly, I feel sick in the stomach. It's like the soup I had for a midnight-snack is lurching inside, still boiling hot, burning me from within. I want to throw up, but not really. I feel like I can't breathe.

Worse of all, I know why I feel this way.

This isn't supposed to happen.

I'm not supposed to feel nervous just because Quinn's staring at me in a dark room with a stupid Disney movie and a gay romantic Disney song playing in the background.

I'm not supposed to feel nervous just because it feels like we're kids again, not enemies, and are sitting happily together in what can still somewhat be called bliss.

This isn't supposed to remind me of how I was hurt, or how she was hurt.

This isn't supposed to make me realize how much I've missed her over the years.

This isn't supposed to make me remember how it felt being in love with Quinn Fabray.


	7. Chapter 7

_This is the last chapter that I'll be updating until after April 12th (Sorry! Land of NoWifi does not permit me to upload!). __It's a little short, and I realized it kind of leaves you all hanging, so I'm very, very sorry... please bear with me! And hang in there, I promise it'll get better!_

_On the brighter side of things, I'm feeling much better today :) Thank you for all the support you've all given me! But still, reviews are love, right~?_

_This chapter is dedicated to Boringsiot, who has been a wonderful reviewer, critic, and absolutely amazing friend, just because she chose the number 7 :) I LOVE YOU :)_

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**Chapter 7**

_Quinn's POV_

I don't know when I fell asleep during the last bit of the movie, but I think I faintly remember seeing Lady with her three look-alike babies before my eyes shut themselves for the last time last night.

My back and neck are stiff from sleeping while sitting upright, and I groan as I stretch. I want to open my eyes now that I'm awake, but my eyes hurt to open because of all the crying. It's taking a looooong time to open them too, because they're glued shut and as stubborn as I am.

When I finally do succeed in prying them open, I find Santana's sleepy eyes staring at me.

_Whoops._

"Sorry, did I wake you up?"

"No, Q, it's fine." She looks so strange. It's not because of the raspy voice or the half-closed eyes or the cave-woman hair, or any sort of feature that graces her fair countenance. She just feels different. And _not_ a good different.

"So I did?"

"Not really, don't worry about it." She hops out of the bed effortlessly, and I almost fall as I realize I've been leaning on her all night. She must be more sore than I am. That must be why she's so cranky and weird with me this morning. She's cold and aloof, too.

She feels distant.

And it feels weird. Was it something I said?

"I'm hungry."

I look up as I get out of bed to give my legs a stretch, "Let's go down for breakfast?"

"Okay, I'll meet you downstairs while you get changed?" She's reached her hand outside her door and it has just magically come back with my silk robe on a hanger. Mia must have put it there.

I feel confused as she holds the robe at an arm's length and hands it to me. "Um… sure…"

I watch as she walks out the door. I listen to the muffled shuffles of her feat down the corridor.

Wasn't she all cuddly and cute and caring last night? What happened? Did I say something in my sleep? I don't sleep-talk but…

Or is she seeing me in a different light because I gave up on my baby girl? Or was it my choice of movie she didn't like? I thought she used to love it…

I feel very confused, and though I hate to admit it, I like the Santana I had last night. The Santana that cared about me like she used to. I feel my eyes stinging again, but I refuse to cry.

I throw off Santana's t-shirt and let it fall to the bed. I don myself with the robe and go to her dresser to check my appearance in the mirror. Maybe I look weird.

I look. I don't look weird. I look perfectly normal, just that my eyelids are a lot more defined than usual because of the crying. But other than that, I look normal. As I turn my head to exit her room, resisting the urge to look around and explore, something catches my eye.

At first it's just a blur of red and white. And then I realize what it is. I push aside the singular bottle of lotion blocking the rest of the frame. It's a photo of Santana, Brittany, and me in our Cheerios uniform. They're practically all over each other, while I'm just smiling on the side. I don't look misplaced, but I definitely don't look like I'm in place either.

It feels really nostalgic to look at it. At the same time, it reminds me of days that I wish didn't existed.

And then a smaller frame behind this one seems to kind of pop out. I reach behind this frame of the unholy trinity to reach the smaller one, holding it up closer to myself. It's a surprising sight, because I see only two children in this photo.

Of course, I'd recognize these two children anywhere. They're both six. One's blonde, wearing a pale pink frock, with a childish grin on her face. The other's a Latina, wearing a matching red dress, with a devious smirk on her face. Both of them have their hair pulled back into a ponytail and the two children are sitting side by side, on a garden swing suspended from a branch of an old tree. They're holding hands.

It's Santana and me, young, naive, moments before her mother comes screaming because we may have just trashed her dresser in an attempt to find some red lipstick. It's Santana and me when we were actually happy together.

_Funny how a photograph can take you back in time, to places and embraces that you thought you'd left behind…_

I know I have this photo somewhere lost in the basement, packed away in photo albums, which are in turn hidden in boxes that I haven't opened in years. They're collecting dust. Rusting, too. I don't like touching the past. I think it belongs hidden in the dark forever.

But here it is, in broad daylight. Our past, a past Santana clearly treasures. She's kept this photo for almost 19 years now. It would have made sense if she kept it until I pushed her out, but she's kept it even after then.

I really want to know why, but I suddenly remember I'm not supposed to be looking around in her room. I set the photo on the desk and then head for the door, turning my head to catch one last glimpse of the photo. Then I open it, step out, and close the door behind me.

The walk down the corridor and down the stairs is short, but it allows me enough time to purge my mind of the memories and (un)wanted thoughts.

I need to regain control over what I want to remember and what I choose not to.

When I enter the dining room, I find Santana sitting on her usual seat, food laid out on the table, waiting for me.

I take my seat across her, where Russel sat last night. I sincerely pray that the chair has been thoroughly sanitized and purged of his evil. I pray that I am not showing any signs of weakness either.

Come to think of it, Santana was probably inwardly smirking at how scared and childish I was last night. The thought makes me sick. Does she pity me?

"Hey," I try my best to smile as I pick up my butter knife so I can spread jam on my croissant.

"Hi," she squeaks weakly, doing the same. She's avoiding eye contact with me. I want to know why. I need to know why. Maybe she's really judging me for getting rid of my daughter. I didn't want to.

"Are you feeling okay today?"

She nods as she puts the bread in her mouth, biting a bit of it off and chewing away. I rip a small piece of the croissant and spread a little bit of jam on it, before popping it in my mouth. Clearly she's lying.

"A little sore from last night?"

"We didn't do anything sexual, you know…"

I blush, realizing how 'wrong' I sounded, "I meant from sleeping sitting up…"

"Oh, yeah, a little."

I don't like how she's being so brief with me. It's like she doesn't want to talk to me. I study her in silence throughout breakfast, but she doesn't even once lift her gaze to look at me. It hurts a little bit inside.

It's not really supposed to hurt, but it does.

You know how people say that you only realize how much you love something when it's gone? I think I just realized how much I loved Santana's company…

I oughtn't, but I do. I guess years of estrangement and just… missing her has made it more or less impossible to feel a little happy that we're at least on talking terms again.

Sometimes, it feels just like the old times.

Honestly, I don't open myself up to people (neither does she), but when she's around, I just tend to tell her things that I've told no one. I tend to show her a side of me that only she knows.

She makes me weak. I resent her for that, even though technically, it's not her fault.

My heart sinks lower and lower and my appetite becomes smaller and smaller. It's not because I'm full—I'm eating so slow I'm only half done my croissant when Santana's in the kitchen asking for seconds already—but I really don't like how she's treating me with even more distance than she did at my office on the day the contract was signed. It feels wrong.

I know sometimes I'm only civil with her most the time, and most the time I like to ignore her existence, but since last night… I've never felt so close to anyone before.

I desperately need something to talk about. I'd ask about the weather, but I'm pretty sure neither one of us has looked out the window. Work isn't a question, I asked last night.

As she takes her seat across me again, I suddenly blurt out a few words before I know what I'm doing, "Why do you have a photo of six-year old us?"

_Shit._

Santana stops mid-chew to stare at me. I feel myself tense and my blood run cold. Her stare isn't the 'hell-you're-hot-hang-on-I'm-checking-you-out' stare. I sincerely wish it was. Anything would be better than the stare-glare that she's shooting me now. This one's her lethal 'speak-one-more-word-and-you're-dead' stare. I swallow.

"Were you snooping around my stuff in my room?" Her voice is as cold as ice.

"No, I was checking my appearance at your mirror and it's right on your dresser!"

"It's _behind_ another bigger frame."

"I—"

"Fabray, were you looking around my room?"

"No, I wasn't." I look into her eyes, trying to show my sincerity as I speak.

"Then how did you find it? I keep it out of sight." She's almost sneering at me, and to be honest it hurts. It's not just the tone she's speaking in, but how she emphasises that she 'keeps it out of sight'. It reminds me that maybe she still hates me.

And it reminds me that she has every single right to.

"I just happened to see a smaller frame as I leaned over your dresser so I got curious, okay?"

"And so you just picked it up to look at it?" Her eyes are burning a hole in my skull. Or at least that's what she wants to do.

"Yes… I'm… I'm sorry…" I hang my head low.

"You tell me not to go snoop around your house and not to even step into your room and I fully respect you," Santana's voice raises in agitation, "I don't touch anything that belongs to you. But I leave you in my room for five minutes and you're already snooping around?!"

Her gaze is as brumal. It's chilling me to the very core. I know I can glare back with the equal coldness, but I can't. Well, I won't.

"No, Tana, I—"

"Shut up, you nosy bitch!"

I visibly recoil at her words. She seems to stagger in her own world as well, as though she can't believe she just said what she did.

Just like that, we sit for a moment, both wanting to speak but being mute. The grandfather clock ticks really loudly in my ears. The sound of my pounding heart is louder than the ticking though.

The sting in my eyes warns me it's time to run. And just as I stand up, the chair moving back with such force that it falls back, a lone tear runs down my face.

I bolt for the door. I run up to my room, lock the door, away from everyone else. Away from Santana.

I need to get away from her. I can have everyone around me, I can be stuffed in a room with a trillion other people. But she needs to be out of the room. She needs to behind a closed and locked door.

I hate to admit it, but it might have been better if I continued to keep her out of my life.

My tears are running shamelessly down my face as I sink to the floor, my back sliding on the door. When I hit the bottom, I draw my legs up and bury my head in my hands.

I cry.

It's not just any cry. It's not the kind of crying where I'm biting onto something or in the shower with tears rolling down my face. I'm not crying in silence. My sobs are loud, I'm choking on my own tears, and I'm close to wailing.

I can't believe a small part of me actually wanted to continue the fight before she called me a bitch. I can't believe fighting with her feels better than being ignored by her.

I'm a fool.

I remember why I distanced myself from her after graduation. It's because the opposite of love isn't hate. It's hurt. And I wanted to forget the pain.

The pure, unadulterated pain.

But it's back, because I've opened myself up to her again.

I've let her into my life. I've let her into my heart. I've let her hurt me.

And I think, after all this time, she still hates me.


	8. Chapter 8

_Babies I'm back! _

_This new chapter is a tad bit short, but hopefully you'll enjoy it!_

_Thank you for all the support you guys have been showering me with! I feel the love! _

_Special thanks to BoringSiot who took the time to read over and lemme know how this chapter went and help me with a few fixes (and for staying up with me talking about quinntana and other lesbian matters for half the night haha!) I LOVE YAAAA_

_as usual, I love reviews!_

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**Chapter 8**

_Santana's POV_

Three days. Three long-as-hell days.

I wish I had a superpower to rewind the damned grandfather clock, rewind time, and then take back everything I said to Quinn in the heat of the moment. I'd swallow every single word I said. She may be annoying, but I really shouldn't have called her a nosy bitch. I did sort of leave the photo in an open area, so what's the big deal with Quinn seeing it? It should be everything but a big deal. It doesn't mean anything. It shouldn't, anyway.

I always thought Quinn was more or less bipolar, the way she swings from one emotion to another within seconds when she's with me, but I realize that maybe I, too, am not any less emotionally unstable. Maybe there are two bipolar bitches living in this house.

And having said that, I feel weird not having her around.

In fact, I feel guilty.

Santana Lopez feels guilty.

I don't exactly know why I snapped that late morning. Well, I do know, but I will stay in denial…

_Is it still denial when you accept that it's denial?_

I tell myself I broke down because I've been really deprived. It's been a little while since we've been married. A little while since I've had a one-night-stand or a fling or some sort of thing like that. I tell myself I'm cranky because I need sex.

It's a complete lie, though, and I'm all too aware of that.

Ever since I've entered this house, except for the occasional little spark of passion in me that makes me want to jump Quinn, I haven't felt the need for sex. It's really weird, because everyone knows that Santana Lopez going four days without sex unleashes the monster in me. I become super cranky and will swear and curse everyone I see. Occasionally, I resort to violence to soothe my energetic self.

But somehow with Quinn, it's different. I hope it's not because I'm falling hard and fast for her again. What am I saying. I _am not _falling hard and fast for one Quinn Fabray, and I never will. Not again. One mistake is bad enough. High school mistakes should definitely stay in high school.

It's been three days since I've seen Quinn. As in, properly seen her. She's gone out of her way to avoid me. When she's home she's either in her room or in her study—in a place where I don't ever enter.

She takes her meals in her room, and she stays at her office till god-knows-how-late.

Once in a while I catch the scent of roses and I know she's been where I stand only a moment ago. Sometimes I catch a shadow tiptoeing up the stairs, and I know she's finally decided it's safe enough to go from her study to her room without seeing me. Sometimes I hear a choked sob from her room, because I walk close enough in attempt to get her to open up.

But I always back off when I hear the sob.

Actually, the afternoon after we fought—or rather I shouted at her—I went up to her room to apologize. But just as I was about to knock on the door, I hear her crying.

It's heart breaking really. I know she's the silent type when it comes to crying. She's always been.

When we were 5 and she fell off a slide—don't ask me how she did it, I wish I knew too—and bruised her knee, tears rolled freely down her face but she never uttered a word. When we were 12 and her sister left for university, I stood by her side at the airport while she cried silently. And then during and after our freshmen year, every single time I've seen her cry, I've never heard a single sound.

But there I was, standing at her door, hand up and ready to knock, and all I hear is her sobbing and coughing.

It breaks my heart even more to think that she's been crying since she ran up to her room _because of me._

I hate myself for how I reacted. Why do I care so much that she saw that one little photo? Yes, it's my favorite photo of us, because just prior to my photo she told me she would be my best friend and we'd be cat-loving grannies together when we grew old. She told me she'd always be in my life. Forever.

That's the funny thing about 'forever'. It doesn't last. It's just a word made up by lovesick fools who hope that their love would last season after season, year after year, decade after decade, and sometimes centuries after centuries.

Come on, even Romeo and Juliet promised 'forever' and were over in four days.

But now, after three days of utter silence and distance, I'm at her door again. It's a little before eight, and I hope she's not yet asleep or too busy doing whatever she does to avoid me.

I knock on the door quietly. I wait. No answer I knock again, with a little more force. I hear a sigh. And then I hear her voice for the first time in three days.

"Come in. But leave the door open."

I twist the doorknob and enter. For the first time since we've been married, I'm in Quinn's room. It's an irony that she chooses this very occasion to let me in.

Quinn's room is a little bigger than mine, but practically the opposite of mine. Everything's white, or in really light shades of colors. It suites her perfectly.

I see Quinn reclining on her lavender-colored bed. She looks up from the book she's reading. Her whole entire face tells me she's been sleep deprived. The bags under her eyes are enormous and she resembles a panda.

"Yes?" Her voice is calm, cold.

"I…" I swallow. I'm swallowing my fear, but also my pride. "I'm sorry about the other day…"

She sets her book down, looking mildly interested in what I have to say. I'm relieved, because I fully expected her to just nod and wave me off.

"I overreacted… I just… " I can't find the words I had pieced together in my head before I stepped into her room, "I'm sorry."

Her voice is thin, but I can see from her eyes that she sort of understands, "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have looked."

"No, I shouldn't have called you a bitch…"

"I am one, I know that."

"You can get a little annoying, but you're not a bitch. Well, I don't have the right to call you a bitch. Only you have the right to call yourself a bitch." What on earth am I saying. "And if I do call you that… I only have the right to call you my bitch."

She raises an eyebrow. What have I just said.

She sighs. I gulp.

Just before I turn on my heels and walk out, Quinn speaks again, "Okay, we're even, alright? So are you going to stay standing awkwardly at the door or what?"

"Well, what's my option if I take 'or what'?"

"You can come in and sit at the foot of my bed."

She clearly still wants distance. First keeping the door open, and now sitting only at the end of the bed. But I don't complain. It's a step. I've been stupid, and now I need to undo this stupidness.

Besides, putting a little distance between us might be good, because that means I can go back to ignoring the little voice in my head that says I still have these hibernating feelings for Quinn. It's something like a dormant volcano.

I do as told, taking a seat. It's awkward. She's looking at me, expecting me to say something, and I'm looking back at her, gaping like a goldfish because I don't know what to say.

Finally, I end up blurting out, "What are you reading?" _Seriously, Santana, nothing better to say?_

"_The Beautiful and Damned._"

Her answers are short, and I notice she's studying me. I'm studying her too. Up close, she looks even more weary than she did before.

"Um, how's work?"

"It's tiring. I have a new case," she sighs, changing her position on the bed, "some people don't know what 'no means no' really means. When a girl says no, you stop. You don't follow them around and then get drunk and attack her."

"You're fighting for the girl's side, then?"

"Of course." She looks into my eyes for a moment. I can't read what she's thinking. She speaks again, "What about you?"

"Oh, I'll be shooting for _Christian Dior_ soon." I offer a small smile.

She smiles back. It's small, but it's there. She looks a little more lively when she smiles. Prettier too.

"Oh, um, S, have you seen this?" She picks up a magazine from her nightstand and tosses it at me. I catch it to read the large font on what appears to be a gossip magazine: _World-class playgirl shopping with our top lawyer—are sparks flying behind the closed curtain?_

What closed curtain? Media has a tendency to make everything seem more sexual.

I flip a few more pages to find the detailed and mostly fabricated story of our shopping trip two-or-so weeks ago. There's a photo of me entering the changing room with Quinn, and then a photo where we're laughing and talking before Quinn notices the camera.

I don't bother with reading the article because I know it's probably mostly fake. "Nope. Publicist doesn't think I should be so narcissistic and read every single article the media has on me and my life."

Her smile widens a little, "Mia picked it up last week. What do you think?"

"I don't think much, Quinn, it's bad for my brain sometimes," I love how she smiles even more at my… joke? Is it even a joke?

"That explains my headaches then, I'm always thinking."

Thank god she's at least talking to me normally now. Even if she wants distance between us, at least we're not engaged in a three-word-exchange conversation.

"I give really good massages you know."

She raises an eyebrow again, "And how many girls have you practiced on?"

I laugh nervously, because it makes me remember my playgirl tendencies. I haven't really told her much about them, but then I suppose she doesn't really need to or want to know.

"Just my mother and a few clients."

She's looking kinda funny and I realize what I just said doesn't sound very right.

"And by clients I mean people who come to the massage parlour for massages. I took up a half-time job at a massage parlour during the first year of my career. Earn a few more bucks, keep income steady."

She nods, seemingly relieved that my 'clients' aren't middle-aged perverts who are hounding for sex.

"So…" For a moment, neither one of us really know what to say. The clock strikes eight downstairs. It's a faint striking, but it's clear because the door is open.

"Can you come down to dinner with me tonight?"

She cocks her head to the side in this strangely cute way, "Why?"

"It's lonely," I blurt, "eating at the table alone feels really weird."

She lets out a small childish giggle and I find it too adorable, "Alright, I'll come."

I head out the door first, leaving her to gather her thoughts and maybe herself before she comes down.

Honestly, Quinn is the very reason that I became a playgirl. Why? Because after being rejected by her, I've just had this little fear of commitment. I don't want to commit and then get hurt. Brittany knew I didn't like to be committed, but not why. She didn't ask, and was okay with just fooling around. Dating wasn't serious for me. Everything was more of a fling. I did sort of fall in love with her, but somewhere deep inside, we both knew it wasn't a promise of forever.

No one knows why I have a fear of commitment, really. I just tell people I don't like commitment. And it seems like everyone I've slept with and all my fans are totally okay with that. Occasionally, they tell me that they think so-and-so and I would work out well, but I just brush it off. People who bother to sleep with me know they don't own me and never will.

I'm better off alone, fluttering from flower to flower. No one holds me down.

There's only one person that can make me settle down, but even with her, I'm scared of commitment.

Turns out that even with the physical distance between us, I can't help but think that maybe—just maybe—I have an actual chance with Quinn.

It's actually really really stupid because she's still straight and this is all temporary.

But I sort of want a chance with her. A real chance. I know I have commitment issues, but I also know she has trust issues. And I also know that's because I kind of just walked out on her after she rejected me. I suppose I was the one who broke the promise of forever first.

I wonder if we can fix each other.

I actually think it's possible for me to settle down and be committed—if the person I stay committed to is Quinn Fabray.

I'm so used to playing girls, but I'm only playing myself this time. There's no way she'd ever want me to be committed to her.


	9. Chapter 9

_hey there darlings! I'm a couple of days early, simply because I felt like posting earlier this week!_

_so this chapter is done especially for Silent12reader who wanted a Judy and Santana scene! So I hope you enjoy!_

_Anyway, I know most of you out there are dying for a proper (aka smutty) Quinntana moment, and DON'T WORRY! IT'S COMING (in like... hmm... less than 10 chapters?). In the meantime, I'll be spoon-feeding you guys with growing tension and loveeee between our unlikely couple!_

_I've been writing less these days because I'm trying to balance 4 exams for May and 6 for June, but don't worry! I'll be keeping updates at least weekly! As for Quinntana Week 2014... I can't do all of the days, but I suppose I could do one or two, so LET ME KNOW IN A REVIEW OR PM WHICH DAY YOU WANT ME TO DO THE MOST! Feel free to message me some plots that you'd like to see happen for oneshots! I'll see what I can do..._

_Day 1- QS Begins  
Day 2 - Comfort/Fluff  
Day 3 - Meet the Family  
Day 4 - Future QS  
Day 5 - AU  
Day 6 - Holiday Season_

Anyhow, reviews are love!

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**Chapter 9**

_Quinn's POV_

What the hell am I doing here? I think it would have been a better choice just to let my mother have a coffee date with one Lopez. Clearly, they're talking so much and laughing so much I'm practically invisible.

"Quinnie, dear, you're awfully quiet today, are you feeling okay?"

I raise my gaze from my cup of coffee to find my mother's eyes filled with worry as she watches me carefully. Santana rests her arm on the backrest of my chair.

"Yeah, of course," I offer my mother a small smile, choosing to ignore Santana. She's honestly the one who's annoying me right now.

"Are you sure?"

"Yep."

"Alright…" I see her pause for a bit before turning her attention back to Santana, "So, how long have you guys been meeting up again? I thought you two stopped talking in high school!"

Santana hesitates as she looks at me with a smile that's hinting panic, "About…"

"About a year ago," I interject with a sigh, "Sorry, mom, Santana's memory is worse than a goldfish's."

"Why, Quinnie! You never mentioned it over the phone!" Mother leans in, obviously very interested in this 'new turn of events', "I expected more of you!"

It's Santana's turn to make a dive for the save, "Well… I kind of wanted to keep it quiet… just for both our careers, you know… I mean… for mine it isn't too big a problem, but for her… Paparazzi's sometimes tap phones now, you know?"

I want to shake my head and wish Santana would come up with better excuses. Thank goodness my mother isn't media-crazy. Thank goodness she buys what Santana says.

"I see… well… Quinnie, do you want to fill your mummy in with the details now?"

"Not really," I mumble, "It's embarrassing…" There's no story to tell, and I don't want to create one.

"Santana?"

"I… well… we happened to meet at the mall…"

I'm resisting an urge to roll my eyes and glare at Santana till she shuts up, but it would only be a fatal mistake.

"I spilled coffee on her," Santana laughs uncharacteristically, "Not the best impression after years of estrangement, but hey, cupid hits you when you least expect it!"

Having Santana tell the story, even if it is more convincing than the version in my head, is definitely more embarrassing.

"True, dear, do continue."

Santana officially deserves a fucking punishment when we get home. By that, I mean deprivation of desserts for a week or something. I don't know, punishments aren't my thing. But god, this is pissing me off, more than it should, really.

"Well… I offered to pay for the dry cleaning of her suit… and then we sort of ended up exchanging numbers and… well… I asked her out like a month after the whole accident."

She's good at fabricating stories, as unrealistically real as they are. Who the hell falls in love in one simple month? Oh, right, playgirl Santana does.

"And she said yes!" Mother's exclamation makes heads turn in our direction, embarrassing me to the core. I want to hide or better yet, evaporate. I stare into my coffee, as though I can read my future in it like gypsies read tea leaves. Please tell me my future has no Santana Lopez in it.

Santana seems to be lost for words for a moment, before continuing in a hushed tone, "Mrs. Fabray, please keep your voice down… Quinn and I don't want the public attention…"

"Sorry, Santana-darling. And it's 'mom', not 'Mrs. Fabray'. Get it right, dear."

"Right, _mom._" Santana rolls her eyes in a good-natured way, before continuing on the little fantasy of her's, "So she said yes, and then we kind of… "

"Fell in love?" Mom's squealing like a high school girl now, and while I find it a very little bit amusing, I also find it really really annoying.

"Well… we didn't really fall in love."

What? I frown as I look towards Santana for a better explanation. Surely, she isn't going to blow my cover now? I try to keep my composure by taking a sip of coffee. Big mistake.

"We sort of… skydived into love?"

I choke, almost spitting the coffee out at her words. Seriously, this woman really can't just keep it simple, can she?

"That…" my mother obviously hasn't noticed me, or my choking, or my coughing now, "sounds absolutely beautiful."

Santana rests a hand on my shoulder, as though to calm me down. It does the opposite, because I want to slap her really badly. "It was. It still is, really." She takes my hand. That bitch takes my hand and holds it. She knows I can't pull away now.

"Oh, I'm sure, darling. I'm so happy to know that you two have regained your friendship… and to be spouses too!"

"Me too," Santana flashes one of those smiles that are known to blow people away. It doesn't seem to have that effect on my mother though. In fact, instead of shutting up in awe, she seems even more excited. Oh damn.

"Oh! I still remember how cute you and Quinnie were back in kindergarten! I could never catch you two after you did something to Frannie or to my wardrobe! Oh dear, you two were such adorable children back then! Even in primary school! I remember how Santana always came over to walk you to school, Quinnie, do you remember? Oh, Santana, surely you remember! And then there's that time when…."

That's it, I'm going to drown out my mother's voice. Not only is she retelling my childhood with picture-perfect memory, my mother's memory also doesn't fail in bringing to her lips my most embarrassing stories that I wish Santana would forget.

I turn to look at Santana, hoping to catch her eye so she can somehow shut my mother up (obviously, my attempt would be futile), but from the way Santana's leaning in and laughing, she's much too amused to notice me.

So I suppose we're back with the Santana-and-mother talk while I sit silently and invisibly on the side. At least two-thirds of us are having fun.

The coffee's getting cold.

"Hey," I interrupt without a smile, "I'm getting more coffee. Anyone want anything?"

Honestly, I've never seen mother this excited. She shakes her head, opening her mouth, ready and eager to continue her endless tale of my embarrassment. Santana opens her mouth to request a drink, but she shuts it like a goldfish almost immediately.

"Um… actually… Mom… if you don't mind, I'd like to grab the drink with Quinn. I've been ignoring her a little too much over the course of tea." She grins like a dork.

"Oh, of course," mother smiles, reaching for her own tea, which by now, is but a cup of cold and bland tasting water, "I'll be right here waiting for you two love birds!"

Cursing Santana mentally, I stand up, pausing my step for a split second so Santana can 'catch up', before walking at a quick pace in a businesslike fashion towards the counter. It's not long till we're out of earshot.

"Quinn!"

I'm already in line, and I whirl around just to catch Santana's attention before she walks straight into me. "What."

"I… Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be." I offer no emotion in my voice, much less my face.

"Um… 'okay' usually means you're looking at me when you talk, not at your shoes? I mean, your shoes are nice and all, but—"

"Cut the crap, Lopez." Why am I feeling so… frustrated? "Why'd you make all that shit up just for my mother?"

"I—" She looks a little overwhelmed, "There had to be a story of some sort!"

"Why couldn't you have said something simpler?"

"Like what?"

"Like… We met at a park where you fell into the pond and I dragged you out or something, I don't know. You're the story-teller and the better liar." Not like the story I just spouted out made any more sense than her's.

"I already chose to make a fool of myself instead of you for our 'accidental meeting'. Besides, falling into the pond isn't exactly genius either."

I turn around, taking a step forward in line. Santana, of course, follows.

"Okay, fine. But the part about skydiving? Really? Since when did I even fall in love with you?"

"I was just saying whatever came to mind!"

"I never skydived for you, and I doubt you've ever skydived for me." I roll my eyes even though she can't see it. Blood is rushing into my cheeks. Why am I making such a big deal out of this? This is just a goddamned story.

"I…" Santana goes silent.

To me, even having had lived with her for a time, this is unchartered territory. I'm defensive. Very defensive.

I move forward in the line again before turning around to unleash a series of scathing remarks. Instead of a victorious smirk, I find Santana's eyes downcast. She's staring at her… shoes?

Was it something I said? Falling in a pond… no… Skydiving… skydiving…. um… Santana skydiving for me…

Oh.

Shit.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out, "I… I wasn't thinking…"

"It's okay. I said too much." Santana's face is frozen solid, no emotion, no hint of hurt or pain or anything anymore. Shit shit shit.

"No… I just… I'm sorry… I just… I felt so lost… Mom doesn't usually act like this…"

"No, I…" Santana looks away, "Can you order hot chocolate or something for me?"

"You're going back to my mother?"

"If you don't mind…"

"I… don't…" I feel guilt sink in as Santana looks me in the eye for the first time since she's brought her gaze to her feet, "Just… don't overdo it?"

"Yea."

I watch as she turns on her heels to return, "Hey, come here."

She looks at me, wary and weary, but returns like an obedient little puppy.

"Can you bend down a tiny bit? Your heels make you way too tall."

Again, she does as told. Is she always this submissive when she's hurt? Doesn't she fight?

I brush her bangs away from her forehead, tip-toe, and give her a gentle peck on the forehead, "Cheer up, actress. I'm sorry I got annoyed."

She pulls away with a small smile on her lips, but it's far from the one she had before I blew up, "Yea. Thanks, Quinnie."

I watch her back as she walks away. She looks somewhat defeated. Did she really skydive for me once? I know it was insensitive for me to say I doubted that she ever skydived for me… especially when I know she did once fall in love with me, but that was all in the past, right?

She's living the life she wants now, free of judgement, and free of commitment. She's not tied down by anyone… but me.

It finally dawns on me that I'm holding her down with the contract. That's why she's so weird around me… must be.

Everything she's said to my mother must be how she met some other girl… It has to be that way! It's not her fantasy… It can't be.

I take another step forward in line. I really must set her free as soon as possible. Life was better before we got together again.

"What can I get for you, miss?"

"Earl Grey tea and a cup of hot chocolate."

"Regular?"

"Regular."

I'm really not 'there' as the conversation carries out, and I pay absentmindedly too. I move out of the way to wait for my order.

Why does the thought of Santana being uncomfortable around me make me feel so uncomfortable as well?

Taking the two cups placed before me, I head back towards the table where I find Santana and my mother laughing once more. I pause in the distance though, because this Santana I see now is so different. She's either a really really good actress… or… she's actually enjoying this conversation with my mother?

It irks me to see her so carefree around my mother, but not around me. Between her and me is this invisible barrier that I can't seem to thoroughly break.

One moment, I'm able to penetrate that layer of… shame? embarrassment? pain?

But the moment never stays. It's gone as quickly as it's come.

Santana looks up to catch her breath, her eyes searching. Is she looking for me? She sees me and waves me over, and I regain my original pace, taking long confident strides towards the table. I wear a smile on my face, but it's only a facade.

There's so much I don't understand.

"Thank you, babe."

"W-welcome." I'm caught unaware by the sudden pet name.

"Quinn, are you blushing?"

"What? Mom, no!"

"Oh, Quinnie, you're so cute. Still blushing when Santana calls you 'babe'… surely it's not the first time she's called you that!"

"Of course not!"

Santana has the strangest smile yet on her face. It's a mix of confusion and happiness. Is a mix like that possible?

"So…" I clear my throat as I sit down beside Santana, leaning into her a little bit. Maybe it's to offer her yet another silent apology, maybe it's to act for my mother, I haven't decided yet. "What were you two talking about?"

"Oh darling! We're planning the wedding!"

"What?" I splutter, setting my tea down. Thank goodness I haven't had a sip yet.

"Sorry, babe." I feel as though Santana enunciates 'babe' with more effort and so much clarity that it's as clear as glass, just to tease me, "I swear I didn't start this conversation." Her eyes tell me she's sorry.

"Mom, stop being so awkward, please," I turn my attention to my very much excited mother, almost begging her to stop.

"Oh don't be such a pussy!" Mother teases.

"You are what you eat," Santana murmurs just loud enough for the two of us to hear with a smirk gracing her face.

My cheeks turn a violent shade of red, and I want to color a knife equally red with Santana's blood.

"Oh, Santana. I'm sure Quinnie enjoys _eating_, but do keep your… um… habits to yourself!" Mother clearly finds this amusing and it simply makes my blood boil, almost to an extent that steam will be rushing out of my ears.

"Sorry, Mom," Santana slurs sweetly, "I'll keep that in mind for the future!"

"Mom, I've got work," I mutter, lying through my teeth, "Besides, don't you have a flight to catch?"

I watch my mother as she glances at her watch, suddenly realizing the time, "Oh baby girl, I do have to go! Don't pout, it isn't becoming." She taps me on the cheek as she stands up, "Well, you two continue your fun little date or something!"

"Bye mom!" Santana waves enthusiastically, and I wave in boredom. I can't wait to get back home and shut myself in the tranquility of my office.


	10. Chapter 10

_Helloooo! I'm done with one mock exam (3 to go)! I was gonna post this earlier but FF isn't letting me upload which is super frustrating._

_Hope you guys enjoy this chapter with a teensy more Quinntana loveeeee_

_And thank you for all the beautiful reviews and follows and everything! I feel lovedddd! But of course, as usual, reviews are love :)_

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**Chapter 10**

_Quinn's POV_

I can't take it anymore. If I could fly under the radar for a couple of minutes I'm certain that I would wrap my fingers around one Sebastian Smythe's neck, tighten them, and only let them leave when his body is cold and bloodless.

He reminds me of Santana. They're both feisty, annoying, good liars, players, and smirk with this twisted… I don't even know what to call it. But Santana is better than Sebastian, because she's not heartless. She's not cold-blooded. Well, not completely anyway.

Anyway, that heartless son of a bitch taught his client how to lie. And lie flawlessly, too. When they say lawyers are people with brains and not hearts, it's sometimes true.

It's making my case look really impossible. I'm not afraid of losing my first case in history. No, that's not what I worry about. I just don't want _men_ running free when they've committed a crime.

So once again, for the first time in months, I'm locked in my office, a stack of law books on my left, my macbook on my right, and a huge stack of case files in front of me. I haven't slept in the past 26 hours, but I'm not tired.

Okay, I'll admit it, I am, but coffee keeps me going. Coffee and sugar. I'm gonna get so fat after this case because of all the chocolate and sweets I'm eating. It's frustrating me almost as much as the case itself.

A knock sounds at the door, and I let out a grunt. Whoever's behind that door is probably someone who doesn't need to be coming in right now.

The sanded glass door opens slightly, the bottom of it brushing against the carpeting of my office floor. Somebody clears her throat. It's my secretary, Alyssa.

I look up with a sigh, grabbing my coffee and taking another drink, "Someone called, Aly?"

She gives a curt nod and a tight lipped smile. I know off work, Alyssa can be a really fun person. But I'm so so so glad she takes work seriously.

"Who is it?"

"Um, it's a call from your home, actually…"

I raise an eyebrow, "Mia? Sara?"

"Someone with the name of…" she reads the post-it on her hand, "Santana? The number is your home number so I think it's a call from your family or something."

"Oh." I pause, unsure of how I ought to word my following lines. I decide to just blurt it out,"Aly, this is gonna be really hard to explain, but for now, she's my wife."

If she's shocked, she doesn't show it on her face. She's used to me telling her part of a story and leaving the rest out in a big question mark. Really professional. I like it.

"Temporary measures, so keep it low. But just in case she calls again, you'll at least know who you're talking to." My right eye starts hurting because it's really dry. I rub it with my fingers.

She gives another curt nod, "Should I go get you more coffee?"

"Sure," I offer a small smile, "Before you go, did she leave a message?"

"Um, she said, 'Please come home for dinner'?"

I shrug. Why not? This office is killing me anyways. It's not like I can slave here for another day and get much further if I don't sleep. "Can you call her back and tell her I'll be home the usual time tonight?"

"Yep, coffee, then call," she turns on her heels to walk out of my room. Her brown hair wrapped into a tight bun, similar to mine. Well, similar to how mine ought to look like. From the amount of sighing and lying around and running my fingers through my hair I've done, I'm sure it's sticking out in all the wrong places and the bun is half undone.

Whatever. Not important right now.

The door of my room shuts with a swing. I straighten out my back, suddenly feeling pain running through my body. I really need to get out of here, it's killing me. I take this opportunity to stretch my legs and use the bathroom. There's one that's adjoined to my office, so it makes the walk shorter and less time consuming. Every single minute wasted is another failure in this current case.

It feels so good to pee after holding it in for so long. When I'm done, I wash my hands, and instinctively look into the mirror. Whoever is looking back is not human. I swear it. I look ghastly, pale, and ready to spurt blood from my eyes. I suppose I really would benefit from a nap. Coffee really isn't keeping me awake anymore, because I've been drinking it for 18 hours already.

I sigh as I move to the sofa bed planted in the corner of my room. Times like this are when it comes to be handy. I get rid of the cushions, leaving just one, and sink onto it. Aly comes into the room, and I tell her to wake me in half an hour. I close my eyes and that's it. That's as far as I remember.

—

_Santana's POV_

I always thought Quinn worked this hard to keep up her flawless reputation. I know a case is threatening that reputation right now, and I thought I could be certain that's why she's been working her butt off.

But from the way Quinn's sleeping on the sofa bed in the corner of her office right now makes me think otherwise. The brown-haired girl… Secretary, was it? I can't remember her name. Amy? Anyways, she's told me that Quinn's been up for about 26 hours now. And that she's now finally resting.

It strikes me as odd, because the Quinn I knew in high school only did things for herself, and even if her job was in danger, she'd probably would not have given her beauty sleep. And now that she has, she has chosen this inconvenient time to nap, so she must be utterly exhausted. Quinn knows her own limits, but it just seems confusing, nothing seems to add up. I can sort of tell though, she's not that scared of losing a case—it's just once in a million. But she does seem agitated that the guilty will go free. She's definitely changed.

I don't make sense. Maybe I'm just overanalyzing my gut feeling.

I've been allowed into her office, so she must have an idea who I am, but Ms. Secretary has asked me not to disturb Quinn. I nod, expecting the walls to be laden with certificates, gifts and other proof of how great of a lawyer she is. But it isn't. It's stacked from floor to ceiling with books. It's a similar style to the study I visited on my first night at our home, but it's a little brighter. The curtains are drawn though, and I expect to see Quinn at her desk, working away and telling me to fuck off. But she's not bent over her desk. She's napping on a sofa bed. I haven't seen her this worn out before.

Her makeup is smeared and she doesn't care. Her hair is in tufts, forming knots that will take an eternity to comb out. The bags under her eyes make her look a lot less human and a little more like a panda crossbred with a zombie. What really attracts my attention, though, is a sparkling band of silver on her finger. Has she not taken off the 'wedding' ring I got for us? I run my thumb along the ring on my own finger.

The room smells heavily of coffee and I can only guess how many pots she's downed. It's really unhealthy. There's also a mound of candy wrappers in her overflowing trashcan, and that, again worries me. If Quinn works this hard, she's gonna get diabetes at a young age. I don't want that to happen.

Quinn stirs in her sleep, her browns furrowing, mumbling a few words about how 'damn bastards always get their way even though it's wrong'.

From experience I know she doesn't sleep-talk, but they say people sleep-talk if they're really exhausted.

Quinn actually looks really adorable asleep.

Ms. Secretary steps in silently, whispering to me that it's time for Quinn to be woken up. I nod, and tell her I'll do it. She looks doubtful for a second, but seems to remember something, and leaves after giving a curt nod.

To be honest, I don't want to wake Quinn up. It's around six, so I'd rather just let her sleep and then drive her home after this. But if she doesn't get woken up when she wants to be, either Ms. Sec or I will die.

I put my fingers on her cheeks and caress it softly. The mild frown in her face disappears.

I don't know why I missed her last night when she didn't come home from work. It's nice having someone around even if we don't really talk, not even at meals.

I miss her more than I should, really. I ought to be taking advantage of this freedom and staying out later with some girlfriends, but… I don't want to?

My fingers move to her shoulder, and I nudge her softly, "Quinnie… it's time to wake up…"

A deep frown appears on her face as her limp hand tries to wave me away. She gives a low grunt and mumbles a few words that probably mean to leave her alone.

I tap her on the forehead, seeing if I can gain a response, either in un-frowning her frown or opening her eyes.

No response. It almost feels like I'm dealing with a corpse.

I shake her again, still softly, "Babe, please? I'll take you home if you're tired?"

This time she cracks open an eye, "What'd you just call me, Aly?"

Right, the secretary is named 'Aly'.

"I called you 'babe', and I'm not Aly."

Instantly, her eyes shoot open, "Where's Aly? Who are you?"

I take a step back, letting her refocus her sight. It seems like she's having a little trouble doing so. I can only imagine how tired she is. "I'm your wife," I murmur softly, "I'm here to take you home." I'm unsure why I didn't just call her 'Quinn' and call myself 'Santana'. Odd.

"How long have I been sleeping?"

"A little more than a half-hour. But you're too tired to be working."

"No… I need to… I can't let them win…" Quinn is still rubbing her eyes, trying to get herself to see properly. It's practically useless. "She's the real victim, and I have to prove that…"

"Tomorrow. Get some rest tonight, tomorrow I'll drive you back here."

"Mmph," she pouts slightly, deciding her eyes are better off closed, and holds out her two arms in front of her. "Carry me."

I chuckle at how childish she is. Then I remember how she's always been really childish when she's super tired. It's amusing, really, to see Quinn so innocent and carefree again.

"Alright, babe, let's go!" I pick her up and hold her in a bridal position. She seems to fit her body into mine just perfectly, her head resting on my shoulder.

"I like it when you call me 'babe'," she mumbles. I know that anything she says when she's half asleep must never be trusted.

But it feels nice to hear that.

"Should I keep calling you that, then?"

There's no reply as I make my way out of the office. I only hear her soft breathing. The way she slumps onto me tells me she's asleep again already. Poor thing, working herself so hard.

Aly runs after me as I'm at the elevator with Quinn's purse. I thank her as I take it in my fingers, mentally chastising myself for forgetting those. She slips the remote control for unlocking the Porsche into my hand. I thank her once more, and she nods again, still that short curt nod, before going back into… wherever she went.

I'm left alone, waiting for the elevator with Quinn.

I think I may or may not have done this for her before, when we were still friends. Maybe she was hurt or something, I don't remember. But I've carried her this way before, and she's trusted me. Today she must trust me still.

I like how it's so quiet as we wait for the elevator. It's nice to know she's safe in my arms, because I will admit I did worry when she didn't come home last night. Both Mia and Sara told me it's normal when she has a big case. But that doesn't mean I stop worrying.

I think my obsession for Quinn is getting a little out of hand. It's not normal that I don't feel like going around high and proud, doing girls for fun. Instead, I just want to be at 'home' sitting at the dinner table, waiting for Quinn to appear. I wait for her to sit down, take a few bites, and exchange a few words with me.

Honestly, conversations over the table don't last, because she's always busy rushing back into her study. But I somehow treasure them. I don't know why I've fallen in like with her again. I refuse to say 'love' because that's the mistake I made the first time 'round.

I can't love her, not again.

Is it odd that looking at her sleeping face now makes me want to kiss her forehead?

Before I do, the elevator doors crack open. I step in, pressing the button that says 'P' for the carpark, and letting the elevator descend.

I suddenly realize this time is the longest I've spent with her in two weeks. Even though she's asleep, she's near me again.

Over the past two weeks, I've only seen glimpses of her. I can't even fill a single page full with the words she's said to me this week.

I miss her, I really do.

I shouldn't, though.

Whatever, as always, I'll do this the Lopez style. The playgirl style. I'll let love and lust lead me where they want to. Hopefully that means away from Quinn Fabray.

I don't think I'll ever truly fall in love with Quinn anyways.

Or is that just denial?

* * *

_AN: Just curious, would anyone actually follow me on twitter if I had an account?_


	11. Chapter 11

_Helllooooo darlings! Quinntana week is coming so soon! (woot!)_

_Thank you for all the reviews, my darlings! I've reached just over 200 for just 10 chapters, and to me, that is something really special! Thanks for everyone who's been a darling, encouraging me and letting me know what you think! Thank you for alllll your lovee!_

_So I think it's fitting that this chapter is longer and a tad bit more romantic. I know I'm taking a little over forever to reach anything smexy, but at least they're starting to fall in love? :)_

_As usual, do show me a bit more love and review! I hope you all enjoy this! _

* * *

**Chapter 11**

_Quinn's POV_

I want to scream.

I want to find some desolate beach or cliff or mountain or _something _and scream at the top of my lungs.

But I'm stuck in the study at my home. My doorway is practically blocked because of all the law textbooks and case studies covering the floor. Part of the blocking is subconscious, because I _need_ to trap myself in this hell-hole that I usually treasure until I can get this done.

Sebastian and his fucking client paid a witness to give false testimony. How fucking low can that damn bastard go? I'm one court hearing away from losing the case. I'm one court hearing away from setting another demon free. I'm one court hearing away from endangering god-knows-how-many women out there. I'm five days away from the court hearing.

I need something to prove what Sebastian and dip-shit did. I need something to prove my client's innocence. I need something to prove _their _guilt.

This study is my life now. I haven't left this room in four days. I've had my meals brought here, I've slept—or rather, napped—here, I've worked here, and I've been living here. My whole house turned into a tiny book-filled apartment. The only place I ever go other than this study is to the bathroom adjoined to this study. So, in reality, I'm still stuck in my study.

I know one lost case won't ruin me. But I know one free culprit will ruin the city.

That's it. I'm losing my mind. I'm gonna scream, outdoor or not.

—

_Santana's POV_

What the hell was that?

Either a demon just started shrieking in the house and burning it down, or Quinn's watching the horror movie that she watched with me in seventh grade.

But there's no smoke or fire alarm, and Quinn's too busy to watch a movie. So what the hell was that?

Grudgingly, I pick myself up from the comfort of my bed, and hurry down the stairs. The padded slippers mute my hasty steps.

I make my way through the house to Quinn's study. She _has_ to be in there. I've been out of the house only once for 5 hours in the past four days, and I have never seen or heard her come out of that room. Twice, I wanted to go in to make sure she's at least alive, but Mia supplies her with meals on a tray, so I suppose she's still eating.

Meals for myself are getting really lonely, but that isn't important right now.

I knock quickly on the door. There's no reply but another shriek. I hear glass break. _Shit._

As much as I want to just barge in, I know I can not and must not. I hear crumpling pages and a few muttered swears here and there. One more time, I raise my hand, and my knuckles come into contact with the door, the knocks crisp and loud.

"Oh for goodness sake, just open the door yourself!"

I pause for a moment, wondering if I really should open the door. Will I be met with a tired and distressed Quinn or with some stranger?

I reach for the doorknob, but the door rips open before I can take another breath.

I'm met with a stranger. She's blonde, and she's more zombie-panda-crossbreed than human. She has an air of elegance surrounding her and, I'd admit, is really beautiful. Oh, wait, this is Quinn Fabray…

"Yes?" She looks as though she can barely keep her eyes open. Her cheeks are red, her eyes redder, her hair is so messed up she has half an afro. But she still manages to smell nice. Does she shower in that study?

Quinn's dressed in her pale pink robe, only it's creased everywhere. And those dark bags under her eyes… I swear she's from another planet.

"I heard a noise, so I got a bit worried?"

"Oh, that'd be me screaming." Her tone is flat, monotonous. She's tapping her fingers impatiently at the door, wishing I'd either go or evaporate in front of her.

I do neither of the two.

"You're under too much stress."

"Mm. Good observations, Santana. Now tell me something I don't know."

"I don't think stress can help you with your case."

"What are you trying to do, Lopez, give me a bloody lecture now?" She glares daggers at me, but those eyes lack ferocity. They lack the basic twinkle they used to have.

"No, I'm merely stating," I murmur softly, knowing she's quickly losing her patience with me.

"I don't need you to tell me what I already know!" Quinn throws her hands up in the air, moving her way back inside. Just before she shuts the door, I grab her by the arm. She struggles free.

"What do you want." Her tone is more pleading than angry. I know she prefers to be left alone, but I _know_ that overworking only slows down your brain. Being irritated won't help her think well either.

"Come up with me. Take a rest tonight. It's almost eleven. Sleep, and work tomorrow."

"I can't. It's a time bomb. Five days. Time's ticking away. It's not gonna wait for me to catch up with my sleep." She crosses her arms in front of her chest, the fabric stretching a little. Oh god, is she not wearing a bra? "Stop gawking at my breasts, I don't care if my nipples are showing, if you have nothing better to say then just leave me alone."

_Shit. _"Look, please, you're gonna kill yourself like this, please just rest tonight."

"It's not like I don't want to. I can't afford to, and every time I close my eyes I just see Sebastian's devilish smirk."

"I'll help you sleep."

She snorts, "How are you gonna do that, playgirl? Fuck me till I pass out?"

For a moment, her suggestion does seem very tempting. But who am I kidding, of course I can't do that. Well, I can, but I won't. "Wanky," I mutter under my breath before raising my voice, "But I think tonight we'll get you into a hot bath, and then I'll run a massage over you, alright?"

"Save that for one of your sluts, I'll pass." She turns to close the door in my face, but I stick my right foot in the gap just before she closes it.

"Fuck!" Thank god she's not slamming it with half her full strength, or I would have a broken foot. Still, I cringe in pain, the blood draining from my face. That damn door is heavy.

"Oh shit! Santana! What the hell do you think you're doing?" The door opens wide again, and her tired eyes are so wide open they look almost like dinner plates.

I hop back on my unhurt foot, biting my lip so the remnants of my own scream don't spill out. Evidently, from the awkward and apologetic smile she has on her face, my own face is distorted with pain.

Quinn sighs, looking a little defeated, much to my relief, "Alright, Santana, you've outdone yourself. Just tonight. But starting tomorrow you're gonna let me lock myself up until the court hearing."

I nod, exhaling as I put my throbbing foot on the cold tile floor. The numbing heat in my foot begins to inch away. I know the maximum I can get from this is a bruise, so I should be okay.

"Come on, you dope. You can lean on me to get you up those stairs." Quinn steps out of her study, closing the door tight behind her. She comes around on my right side, draping my arm over her own shoulders and putting her arm on my back and under my left arm. "Can you walk?"

I grin despite the pain, because I know I've won this battle, "If I say no, will you carry me?"

She looks at me with a raised brow, before shaking her head with a breathy smile, "Alright, idiot, walk it." Quinn takes a step forward slowly and I limp-hop beside her. I know if she absolutely forces me to walk on my own, I'll make it, but I do enjoy how she's keeping me so close to her, and how she's offering herself for support.

I lean on her a little bit, balancing myself out as we make it down the hallway and up the stairs. The whole process takes about a billion years, and when we reach the top, we're both as old as fossils.

Okay, no, the whole process doesn't take half that long, but it feels like it. We're both a little bit breathless when we finally reach her room. She has a small smile on her face though. It's cute.

"Why are you smiling at me like a dope?"

The smile on my face is wiped out by her words, "Uh… Nothing…"

"You like staring at me, admit it."

"Quinn—"

She plants a kiss on my cheek, and that's sufficient to shut me up. She doesn't look at me when she opens the door to her own room. Immediately she helps me to the foot bed so I can sit down properly. I bring my hurting foot up and rub it. I wince at the pain. There's definitely gonna be a bruise.

Quinn hurries to the bathroom, and within seconds, I hear water running into the tub. She's really following my orders, isn't she?

A soft scent of green apple floats through the air. I find it soothing for me, even though I'm really not stressed, so it really must work miracles for Quinn. I hear her sigh softly inside.

As I massage my own foot, I hear the tap turn off. I hear a very faint rustling of cloth as it hits the floor, and then I hear the soft splash of Quinn entering the bathtub.

Suddenly, I'm all too aware of how vulnerable she is, and how easy it would be for me to just take her in the bathtub. _Damn, that would be hot._

I could go in, kiss her until she's weak (I've been told my passionate kisses are more than capable of that), and then start touching her till she's begging me for more. Then I can thrust a finger into her— _woah, Santana! Watch your damn imagination!_

It's really too late, because I can already feel a little wetness gathering in my panties. Damn it.

I'm really attracted to Quinn, ain't I? I swear it's only physical, though. She's hot, who wouldn't want to fuck her?

I place my foot back onto the ground, smiling to myself that I can now walk properly again. Sort of. Standing up, I take a stretch. Then I let my feet lead me to… Quinn's bathroom?

She's left the door slightly ajar, and peeking in, I can see her pale skin against a plethora of bubbles. The scent of green apple is stronger here, more soothing.

Quinn has her hair pinned up into a messy bun, a lose strand of her golden bangs dangling. The water and bubbles cover her up to just above her breasts. I can make out her flawless collar bones, see her beautiful neck and one of her arms, which is just above the water. She lets out a contented sigh.

Gingerly, I knock at the door.

"Come in," she sings, sinking herself a little lower into the water. It's lapping at her collar bones now. She looks really beautiful.

I open the door a little more and slip in, smiling at her, "Is Quinnie feeling a little better?"

She smiles when I call her 'Quinnie', and nods at my question, "Thanks for sacrificing your foot and dragging me out of there."

I walk a little closer, deciding to sit on the edge of her bathtub. I dip one hand into the hot water, trailing just the surface. I want to join her in this bath. Surely, the bathtub is big enough! I'm really getting ahead of myself.

"Admit I'm right about you needing a break this time, Q."

"Never!" She lets out musical laughter, tired as she is, and I find fingertips brushing against my own. I pretend not to notice, though, and just let my hand sit still in the water. I feel her fingers hold onto mine, and I sort of hold her's used to do this when we were still in primary school. All sleepovers began like this, with us sometimes together in the bathtub.

It feels a little uncomfortable sitting on the cold white marble while my core is burning up in passion thanks to how hot Quinn looks in the bath. I squirm a little, but Quinn doesn't seem to notice.

Just like that, we sit a while in silence. Suddenly, there's so much I want to say to her, but I know I can't.

Some things are just better off never said.

I wonder if she's ever regretted pushing me away after I kissed her for the first time ever…

"Hey, S, can you get me a fresh robe from my second drawer on the right outside?"

I snap out of my long mental list of questions and smile at her, "Yeah. How many robes do you have?"

She smiles back, letting go of me as I rise, taking my hand out of the water. It feels surprisingly cold as the air hits it. Must be the temperature difference. Not the lack of Quinn's touch.

I step out of the bathroom, following her directions and finding her a white one. I feel the soft fabric in my hands and make my way back into the bathroom.

Evidently, Quinn doesn't think I'll be back so soon, because as I enter, I find her stretching, her breasts above the water, in full view. God, she's gorgeous.

She notices me and sinks back under the water, a shy smile and a soft pink tinting her cheeks.

"I'll leave it here by your towel? Do you have any lotion I can use for the massage?"

She points to the pile of bottles beside her sink, "Actually, I have body oil somewhere there."

I nod and pick up a clear bottle, "Mango?"

She shrugs, "I'll be smelling like a weird fruit punch at the end of all this."

"Nah. The apple smell should be covered with this one," I smile as I head out the door, reaching out to close it, "I'll be outside, yeah?"

—

_Quinn's POV_

Santana's definitely right about needing a break. I really am tired.

As I rise from the comfort of the water, I reach out for the towel on a nearby shelf. I wrap it around my body as I step out of the tub, landing my feet on a soft carpet. I dry my body slowly.

_Oh damn, forgot about my panties. Whatever._

I slip the robe on, literally butt-naked underneath it, and move to the large mirror that sits behind my sink. I look horrifying. No wonder Santana was staring at me like I was crazy when I first opened the door of my study.

Pulling the pin out of my hair and watching it fall to my shoulders, I reach for a comb to smooth out the tangles. It hurts as I yank the comb roughly through locks of tangled gold. This reminds me to bring a comb down to the study next time I plan on camping in there. I've washed my hair in the sink downstairs, but failed to comb it out.

When at last, my hair cascades down my back in the way that I find acceptable, I put the comb down and turn for the door.

I open the door, expecting a bright room. But no, no bright room greets me. Instead the room is dark, but smells really soothing. I look around, noticing that only a few candles are serving as light source. The light flickers as the flame itself flickers, but my eyes only notice one person. Santana's sitting at the edge of my bed. I take a step towards her, towards my bed. All of a sudden, my heart is pounding.

_Stop pounding, heart. It's a command!_

But since when has my heart started listening to my commands?

"I don't bite?" Santana smiles at me curiously as I take small steps towards her. I bite my lip in response, unsure of what to answer. "Unless you prefer that…" she adds with a sly whisper.

I hear soft music in the background. Like… bird songs? I'm not sure what they are or where Santana's playing them from, but at the moment, I don't want to care.

Is it just me or is this atmosphere really romantic?

I realize that Santana has stored my blanket away… somewhere, and placed a huge soft towel on my bed. She's also put a smaller towel on my pillow. I decide this is so the body oil doesn't stain anything.

I move to sit on the bed, readying myself to lie down. She looks at me questioningly, and I find myself staring back.

"When's the last time you've been to a massage parlour?"

"Um… how about never?" I squeak, staring into her eyes. Is it the dark, my tiredness, or is Santana really beautiful tonight?

She lets out a small laugh, "I think I need to tell you that usually you go naked for a massage. Well, with underwear only."

"Oh…" She seems to sense my blush even though it's too dark to see.

"I mean, we don't have to, but it'll feel better if you do?"

"I'm not wearing panties, and I don't intend to get oil on any of my underwear… Is that… okay?" _What the hell am I saying? I can't be uncovered in front of Santana! Not fully uncovered anyway._

"Um…" she looks at me funny, but she nods anyways, "Sure. Why don't you take off your robe and lie down on the bed? Closer to the edge? I'll turn around and you tell me when you're ready?"

I nod as she turns. With a quick moment, I pull the ribbon holding my robe together and lie down on the bed. I'm thankful that it's so dark in here—had there been a glimmer more of light, my blush would have been super obvious.

Why am I feeling so shy around her tonight? I must just be really tired.

I lie down on my back, staring at the ceiling for a moment. Do I trust Santana?

"You're ready?"

"Yea." I look away as she turns back around. There's no other hint of movement though, so I turn my head to look at her. She's standing still. She's staring at me. Her eyes are feasting on my naked body. Strangely, I don't feel the need to cover myself up.

"When I said lie down, I meant on your stomach…" her voice is a bare whisper, and it's clear she's a little embarrassed too, "But I suppose we can start the massage from the front."

"You never said anything about which side," I retort, as I watch her move towards me. My lower back tingles and I shiver slightly.

"It's okay," she smiles as she takes the bottle on my nightstand and the liquid drips all over her fingers. In the dim candlelight, her fingers shimmer. I wonder how they'd feel like in—nope, not happening.

I suddenly realize why my heart is beating so fast. It's Santana. I… want her? No. Fucking. Way.

"Close your eyes and relax. Trust me."

Strangely, I do all three of the things she tells me to. Or try to anyway.

I hear Santana exhale and then I feel her hands on my collar bones. They move over me with ease thanks to the oil. I obviously tense up at her touch, but she smoothes out my anxiety with a few quick movements.

I wonder if she's staring at me. My lips? My breasts maybe? Or something else?

"Stop frowning like you don't like it."

I sigh as I feel her hands move down to my arm. Her rubbing isn't too soft, but it isn't too hard either. It's just perfect. I let out a small groan as she works her way down to my wrist and fingers. She pulls at them gently till a 'pop' sounds. She then rubs them again. They're so tired from writing and typing. Whatever she's doing, she's doing a good job.

I let her fingers work their way back up to my shoulders, pushing against my skin just above my breast to reach my shoulders. Then she moves to the other side of the bed, climbing on this time, and does the same with my other arm.

When she's done, she softly tells me to roll over so she can do my back. I suddenly realize she could have done my arms even with my lying face down.

Does she like my body?

I do as told, and almost immediately, I feel her freshly-oiled hands slide across my back, along my spine. As her fingers slide over the small of my back, I let out a small moan. _Shit._

For a moment, her fingers stop their movement. I'm almost afraid she'll spit out an insult or some comment that would utterly embarrass me. She doesn't though, but continues to run her hands along my back. Every time she reaches the small of my back, I let out a sound. A pretty sexual sound, really, but I'm a little too tired and enjoying this little too much to care.

Her fingers run all the way to my tailbone, and I flinch, but she goes no further, so I let myself relax again. When Santana's hands come up to my shoulder she begins to rub her thumbs just along my muscle. I let out another moan as I feel the pent-up stress released, and I hear her bite back a small laugh.

"You're tight." She pauses as we both weigh out the comment she just made, "Your shoulders, I mean."

"I know," I murmur, "It's okay."

"Does it feel good?"

"Hell yeah. Don't stop."

"You like it right here?" She runs her fingers along that muscle again, pushing it upwards.

I break into a half-groan-half-whimper, "Keep doing that spot."

With every single push, I feel a little bit of my stress slipping away. With every single touch, I feel my worries relieved.

She's not wrong about having magical fingers.

I groan as she takes her fingers off me to reapply some more oil. This atmosphere, the dim lights, the scent, her fingers—they all make me feel more relaxed than I've ever been.

Santana trails her fingers down the back of my thighs and calves, all the way down to my feet. She massages my sole of my feet, and I bite back a giggle. But it gets a little too much with her gentler touches, and I actually burst out in a fit of laughter as I try to withdraw my foot. "You're tickling me!"

Santana is obviously very much amused at my response. "No, you're just super ticklish!"

"It feels funny!"

"Do you want me to continue or not?"

I turn mute and bury my face in the pillow, deciding to let her continue as I try to muffle my giggles. I'm glad her hands don't linger long on my feet, as good as it feels.

In about another minute on this foot, she moves to the second, and then to my calves. As she presses, it hurts, but it hurts good. My mind barely registers that her touch is moving upwards until she's working her magic on the insides of my thigh, going dangerously close to my—"Santana!" My eyes shoot open as I turn to look at her.

Instantly, she pulls her hands away. She looks confused though, not guilty. "Sorry, does it hurt a lot?"

"No… just…"

"Too close for comfort?"

"A little…"

"I don't have to go so high if you don't want, alright?" she smiles apologetically, making me believe she didn't do it on purpose, "Sorry."

"No… it's okay… Just.. surprised."

She nods and smiles, motioning for me to lie back down. I do so, closing my eyes. She moves her touch an inch lower, and in another few minutes, she does the same to my other leg.

I wish I could enslave her somehow so she'd always be around to do this for me.

Suddenly, her hands run up the length of my leg, over my bare ass, and onto my back, resting on my shoulder-blades. I'm almost certain this isn't necessary, but I decide to keep quiet. I suppose if she'll be giving me a full body massage, I'll at least let her touch my ass a little.

_What kind of logic is that?_

I feel her hands on the back of my neck, working their way onto my shoulders once more. I let out another sigh and a couple of moans as she once more relaxes every part of me.

If this is how good her fingers feel outside of my body, I wonder what she'd do inside…

No, that's impossible, and I won't allow it to happen. I hope. I'm not having sex with Santana any time soon. I don't want it.

Who am I kidding, of course I want it. She's hot and she's probably the goddess of fingering as much as she is the goddess of massage.

But I don't want to get attached to her. I can't. This is all temporary.

She'll only break me if I fall in love her anyways. And she won't fall in love with me for sure. She can't. If she's capable, then please don't…

Suddenly, Santana presses hard on the back of my neck, and I let out another groan. As she pulls me out of my trouble thoughts, I find myself feeling a little like I'm floating. Her fingers feel wondrous. I love it.

I don't really remember where else she goes after that. Maybe my arm again. Or my back. Or maybe she repeated the whole process one more time. I don't know.

When I woke up, the room was dark. The candles were snuffed out, but the scent of mango and of… Santana lingers. I'm under the covers, snuggled up against my pillows. I reach out, trying to see if Santana's sleeping beside me.

But I'm alone.

It saddens me a little to know that she's left me, but I suppose I ought to be glad.

I feel loosened up all over.

I'm thankful that she's in my life. I'm thankful I have her. I'm thankful she didn't take advantage of me. I'm glad that maybe she does hate me a little less than I thought she did, and that she cares for me a little more than she needs to.

I close my eyes, and snuggle closer into the covers. I feel it directly on me, so I must still be naked. I can't be bothered about it though.

It doesn't take long for me to fall asleep again, with Santana smiling in my head.


	12. Chapter 12

_hello, my darlings! So it's a Monday today (GMT +8, it's almost 1:30am!), so you're probably wondering why I'm posting so early! Wellll, as some of you may know, it's QUINTANNA WEEK 2014 starting today (or tomorrow, depending on your time zone), and what better way to greet and celebrate with my lovely readers than to post an extra chapter (that I stayed up writing/editing)? So here you go!_

_For QSw, I will be posting at least one oneshot (Day5), and I'm still working on the Day4 one, hopefully I'll get it done before Thursday!_

_I know this chapter isn't the best chapter of all, regretfully both content-wise and probably grammar-wise (please don't pelt rotten tomatoes at me!), remember everything happens for a reason!_

Again, thanks for allll the love you guys have shown, and please do continue to show more! I LOVE YOU GUYS!

* * *

**Chapter 12**

_Santana's POV_

He looks stupid. That's the first word that comes to mind as soon as he walks through the double doors, prowling eyes ready to catch a lady unaware. The next word is 'fucker', and then comes 'bastard', and then 'fat-ass', and the list could go on forever.

I stand up slowly, readjusting my red tube dress and trying my very best not to roll my eyes at this idiot that walked in only moments ago and is already making a beeline in my direction. A quick glance to the left and right tells me that I'm his target. Go figure.

"Can I buy you a drink?" He slurs, reeking of alcohol already. Chances are, this bar is probably his second or third stop.

"Mm… I don't know… can you?" I coo, inching closer to him, short, stout and unattractive as he is, trying to look mildly interested.

"I sure can," he chuckles, his voice thick as he leans over the bar table and waves the bartender over. I watch in silence as he produces a leather wallet still thick with wealth, and slams it on the counter. I wonder how much of that money came from Sebastian's wallet.

You see, the funny thing is that when a certain method works well with one person, it's bound to work well again. So dealing with Sebastian Smythe for the first time since high school, even if indirectly, I again have a voice recorder tucked into my bra.

"So, what's your name?" he gurgles as he hands me a cocktail I've never seen before.

"Rosario Cruz," I lie, taking the drink with a gracious smile. No way in hell am I drinking this. God knows how much alcohol is this teensy glass.

"Pretty name for a pretty lady," he nods as he sits his fat ass on the bar stool, "You can call me Handsome."

Choking back a laugh and the want to vomit, I manage to lean a little closer to his sick and ugly face, "So… _Handsome_… What are you good at?"

He looks at me with an odd look, to which I respond with a flirty wink, and sets down his glass, closing his eyes for a moment to look intelligent. "Hm. Making money, golf, and… treating ladies like they're supposed to be treated."

He might as well have just told me he was good at hunting lions or some African animal, because I've never seen anyone lie so idiotically before.

"Nothing else?" I whine, watching warily as his hand creeps across the bar table towards mine. I want to recoil because I don't want to be touched by this filth, but I can't.

"Mm… well, what do you think I'd be good at?"

"Hm… fishing?" I muse, taking my hand away from his grasp and running it through my already flawless hair.

"Nah, too boring." His eyes travel up and down my body, undressing me already. I want to get out.

"Uh… the Arts?" _Helloooo, my eyes are up _**_here_**_!_

"Too silent."

I am quiet for a moment, before deciding to take a bigger and riskier step, "Lying?"

For a moment, Ugly decides to remember where my eyes are, and stares straight into them. Deciding I'm of no harm—come on, who could think an innocent, sweet, and sexy beauty like me would have dark intentions? oh right, those with a brain bigger than a pea—he smiles and nods, "Lying's my thing."

"So you've lied to me then," I pout, "Your name isn't H_andsome_ and you actually like fishing!"

He laughs, a low belly laugh that sounds strangely like the croak of a toad, "Those were both real."

"Give me an example of how you lie then!" I sound so eager that it makes myself sick, even though I know all this is fake. Him being tipsy already ought to mean I shouldn't labor myself with so much acting.

"Mm… One time I paid for a newspaper with a twenty dollar bill and then insisted I paid fifty, and ended up getting the extra change!"

"Aww, that only?" I let my smile falter, as though I am thoroughly disappointed, and not just utterly disgusted. "I thought you'd be _manlier_." I've stopped making sense to myself, but whatever floats his boat (and ego)!

"Well… I'm here now and my wife thinks I'm out with my buddies in an overnight golfing trip!"

I'm pretty sure his wife has an affair of her own, no woman would fall for that without realizing shortly after that anything 'overnight' with 'buddies' is likely to involve a third party—women.

"Mm, my mother thinks I'm at church," I smile sweetly, "You're not any better than me in lying."

Ugly frowns for a moment, trying to conjure up the best lie he's ever told, or tell a new lie altogether. Suddenly, clouds lift from his face and he lights up completely, "I know!"

I lean in a little closer, trying not to breathe the same air as he's breathing, "What is it?"

"You have to keep it secret though."

"Of course. But only if it beats my naughtiest lie!"

"Oh, it will," he grins, resting his hand on my leg as I sit down and I remind myself mentally to take a two hour shower later. He leans in closer to whisper in my ear, his breath smelling disgusting, "There's this law case going on. Got paid to lie. Some Smythe lawyer said if I said the girl was seducing and drugging his client and his client is not found guilty of rape, I'd get paid half of what he's getting."

He fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. He really is an idiot.

—

_Quinn's POV_

I think she's a goddess.

I mean, not like I'd ever admit it out loud, but she does have really magical fingers. The morning after the massage, I woke up so refreshed and ready to work. And then, of course, with a brain that was fully functional—even though at an efficiency of only 80% because thoughts of Santana took up 20% of my brain.

But even with the massage aside, I have to admit it was Santana who helped me win this case and pulled three bad guys off the street. At least temporarily, but it's better than nothing, right? Sebastian has gone under the radar but still heading towards prison, his client in jail and his fake witness probably isn't far from there either.

Santana's like that superwoman you're waiting for when you feel so desperate for some sort of aid. The post-it note and USB she had Alyssa hand to me in court that morning is that singular delivery that bears the cure to some pandemic or terrifying disease. Who could have thought Santana would make such a good private investigator? Maybe it's time for her to reconsider her career.

I've heard about her little encounter with Sebastian in her high school years, but I never knew she was this good. And I never thought she'd do it again for me. I have to admit, although some credit ought to go to the witness' lack of a brain, Santana has outdone herself.

Case closed, court dismissed, I'm free from the office.

I've decided to give myself a week long vacation after the final court hearing, because _god, _I'm so tired I feel like I'm a walking bundle of bones sometimes.

So today's the second day, and I haven't really seen Santana since… yesterday morning when I went to the kitchen for a bite of food before I went back to my 28-hour hibernation in a cave called 'my bed'. She's out today, that's what Sara said, so I'm eating a brunch by myself. I have to admit, it's a little lonely eating meals alone again.

It's odd I feel this way, because that's how life has always been before Santana rolled into my life. I don't know why she bothers to wake as early as I do, or be back home by dinner, but every time I have a meal at this dining table, she's always sitting across me.

It makes me wonder how Santana felt, sitting alone at the table for the many nights and mornings that I've been skipping meals at the table.

"Quinn? Magazine?"

I raise my head to Mia's voice as she places a gossip magazine face down on the table and slides it towards me. I smile. She knows me so well, and can tell when I'm bored.

"Sure," I coo, "Have you eaten?"

She laughs softly, "Not everyone hibernates, Quinn."

I grin sheepishly as she enters the kitchen, leaving me to my own devices. Oh, and the magazine. I reach towards it, picking it up in my hands with a mouth full of bacon.

Santana's on the cover, as expected. But covers don't tell you much, other than my wife has fine-as-hell legs (and breasts). I flip through the book, just letting my eyes find photos of her. My well-trained eye spots anything I want it to find, and honestly, when it comes to Santana… she's become really easy to notice.

Who's eyes would miss that perfect figure, that devious smile, that flirty little wink? It's like literally _right there_. Like BOOM right in your face, whether you like it or not.

I find her on page 24. But these aren't new photos. I've seen all these photos before. Weird. I squint to read the captions beside each photo:

_Kisses for our favorite playgirl from the magazine gang in October!_

_Looks like someone gave their heart away last Christmas!_

Could the damned captions get more… stupid? Honestly, even a third grader could come up with something less… cheesy… forced… stupid-sounding. But what makes me curious is that all the photos are from at least a month ago. Maybe two or three, even. The captions bore me to my aching bones, so I resolve to just content myself with the photos. Santana looks stunning in each and everyone of them. All the girls she's holding hands with are sluts.

I turn the page, only to find a very familiar blonde smiling back at me. I'm slightly shocked, but I decide to take a closer look.

This one's not a slut. This one's me. I look a little closer as though to make sure. This is from our… it's not our shopping trip… I'm dressed formally in my blouse, we're in my white Porsche… holy shit.

_She's been laying low for a while. Haven't we all missed her escapades and rendezvous'? Well, she's finally caught again! This time, driving Lady Fab to work~ Has our rising but wanderin' star found a home for her heart?_

A mild hint of pride blossoms in me. I'm the only one able to tie Santana down, then? I must be the reason she's been 'laying low' and missing all her sexcapades. I should be proud, shouldn't I? I have the full right to be.

Or not, since it's a contracted relationship. But I won't let that pesky little reminder dampen my mood.

With a satisfied smile, I lick my lips and set down the fork in my hand. My plate is empty (and greasy) now, so I push it to the side, letting the magazine replace its spot in front of me.

I happen to catch today's date in the corner of one of the pages. The date seems really familiar. What is it? It's not Mia, Sara, Hester, or Eliza's birthday. Can't be. If it was, the other three would be busy distracting her or making food or decorations of some sort.

It's not my birthday either, I think I know well enough what day that is.

Then it hits me.

It's Santana's birthday.

We used to hang out _all day_ on her birthday, school or no school, when we were young. I can't name a single year before the kiss that we didn't spend her birthday getting into some mischief of some sort. Together. We've ransacked my father's private fridge, messed up her mother's make up, smeared the walls of my room with crayon drawings of her and me…

In all honesty, it's been _years_ since we've celebrated her birthday together. That explains why she's out so early today… She probably has some friends to meet up with, celebrate with, party with… and I'm not one of those friends…

As though she can somehow telepathically read my mind, my phone buzzes on the table top.

_S: Hey babe, you awake? You've been asleep for about a millennium. I'm bored._

Babe. I like the way she calls me 'babe'. But then again, how many girls has she called 'babe'?

I sigh softly as I tap back a reply.

_Q: Yup. Don't come home so late if you really miss me._

My fingers press 'send' before I have a chance to think and take back what I just said. Why should I care what time she comes home? Why should I care if she misses me? Why do I miss her?

I wait a couple more minutes, hopeful for a reply. I made an attempt to flirt, so at least she should feel compelled to reply. But she doesn't. The grandfather clock ticks loudly, strikes eleven. No reply.

I refuse to let disappointment sink in. I shouldn't care. Really, Quinn Fabray, you shouldn't care. And certainly, I can't spend a whole day sitting here at the dinner table with a magazine in front of me and playing the staring game with my phone.

I need to be somewhat productive.

So back to celebrating Santana's birthday. Obviously, I can make a few errands down to the cake store and then the florist and maybe some fashion boutique. But what's the point?

Possessiveness takes over. I'm her wife. I need to stand out, I need to be special. I need a gift that will wow her. I need a gift she won't forget.

Hester will teach me how to bake a cake. Well, I can sort of bake a cake. It's edible if I try hard enough. But if Hester will just guide me a _tiny_ bit more, the cake will be perfect.

Hopefully low calories, too!

Who am I kidding. I can't scramble an egg to save my life.

So maybe I should just make cupcakes. They're easier to handle, right? Or maybe cookies? No, my Santana deserves the best. Or rather, the best that will still be reasonably edible? Cupcakes then. I think I can manage. I hope.

I stand up, stretching and walking directly into the kitchen.

Master Chef Fabray is at work.

—

_Santana's POV_

"Kiss her, San, kiss her!"

How did I get myself into this. My head is buzzing a little with the alcohol in my system. I didn't drink much though, so I'm still reasonably sober.

If this is so, then why do I have a nameless girl, half naked, sitting on my lap? Why are my arms wrapped around her thin waist? Why are her lips about an inch from mine? And why are _all_ my friends cheering for us to kiss?

Wouldn't hurt to kiss though, right?

I mean, technically, I'm married. But in reality, I'm still very much single. And damn, this brunette is hot!

I lean in, my lips just gently grazing her's. They're really soft. I kiss her again. And again. She tastes like apple cider. It's a little sweet.

I can hear my friends shrieking with laughter and dying with giggles. Is it _that_ great to watch me make out with a girl? I instinctively tighten my hold on the woman, deepening the kiss. Not that she minded. Who wouldn't give a million dollars to kiss Santana fucking Lopez?

Oh, right. Quinn Fabray wouldn't.

Instantly, I pull away, just before her tongue has a chance to enter my mouth. I open my eyes, looking cool and composed. I smirk at her. The girl has her eyes glazed over, her lips slightly parted. She wants more. She wants me.

I'd want her, too… but… (why is there even a 'but' in this statement?!) I have Quinn. Well, technically speaking, I don't have-have Quinn. But I sort of belong to her? At least, I think I do. No, I don't think I do, it's really just my head that keeps telling me I belong to her and this is making me really confus—

"Santana!"

I snap out of my inner tirade and lift my head. Ah, it's… what's her name again? I smile, hoping she doesn't realize I can't quite make out her name.

She sits down right beside me, snuggling up close already, "Did Santana baby miss me?"

I chuckle softly, draping an arm over her shoulder as brunette-on-my-lap climbs off and scampers off into the crowd for another make out session, "Of course I do, babe."

"I missed you."

I nod.

"I miss your fingers." She's staring at me with that sultry look and a bite of her lip. She wants me. I feel her fingers on my crotch. Damn, she wants me bad.

"Sorry, darling," I use as many nicknames as possible to avoid remembering any unnecessary names, "Don't necessarily do two-time things~"

She pouts and looks away with dramatic disappointment, "You could make an exception for me right?" she leans in, her lips right beside my ear, "We can do something kinky. Your choice."

Her breath sends a shudder down my spine. Why do I not feel like doing anything with her though? I replace my own confusion with a signature smirk (what else can I use?), and lick my lips, "I'll give you a ring if I ever need a second round~"

She giggles shyly but shamelessly, getting up and stalking off. Her fingers graze my breast before she leaves.

Is it just me or is everyone super touchy here? And is everyone trying to get into my pants? Does this usually happen when I'm at private parties? Strange, I never seemed to notice how handsy people are with me.

"Hey, girl!"

I look up just in time to see another whirl of girls taking seats around me. And one on me, of course. Why does it feel like they all know exactly where to be to lean on me in one way or another? Did I used to enjoy this? I think maybe with a little more alcohol.

"Hello, girls," I purr anyway, "Has anyone been naughty?"

A wave of red spreads over all their cheeks, and as amusing as I find it, it's not arousing. At all. If I had a dick, I'd go get a serious checkup on it. In short, I'm having trouble getting it up. Girl style.

One of the girls speak up, looking left and right before giving me a seductive wink, "We were hoping you'd be in for something a little… exciting?"

I laugh, willing myself to say 'yes'. Who'd pass up some pleasure with a gang of cuties like this? Nothing comes out, though. I pretend to think long and hard, partially to tease them, and partially to force the words out of my lips.

A distant voice saves me, though, announcing a toast to the honorable birthday girl—me!

I stand up, smoothing out my black cocktail dress and groping around the for a champagne glass. I excuse myself with a flirty wave and walk quickly towards the stage, scampering up the steps towards Puck. Thank god for Puck, my personal bitch and my personal savior.

"To Santana Lopez," Puck smiles, "for another awesome, gossipy, beautiful, hot, sexy, and very lesbian year! Happy birthday!"

I raise my glass as he does, and the whole 'congregation' follows suite. As we all take a sip from our glasses, I'm praying Puck will start talking to me before the people—specifically girls—start piling over me.

Someone dims the lights and a DJ begins playing tracks to set the mood for some hardcore dancing. The dance floor isn't exactly what I have in mind right now, though. Half the people here I not sober enough to dance anyways.

"Yo, Lopez, you okay?"

I smile gratefully as Puck wraps an arm around my middle. He's a man that I don't feel disgusted to be touched by. He's strong and he's as much of a player as me. Although I've noticed, he prefers MILFs. But everyone has their own quirks, who am I to judge?

"Of course!" I'm right next to him, but I'm already raising my voice. The music makes any conversation near impossible.

"How many girls have fucked you today?" He grins at me, leading me down the steps and into a quieter and less crowded area of the place.

"Um… none?" I scrunch up my nose as he narrows his eyes. He doesn't believe me.

"Okay, let's try again. How many girls have you fucked?"

I'm hesitant as I speak, "Zip. Nada. Zero."

Puck takes my champagne glass and sets both mine and his on a nearby ledge. He grabs my shoulders with both hands, holding me an arms-length away from himself. "Who the fuck are you and what did you do to my Santana Lopez?"

I laugh, shaking his hands off. I don't feel comfortable though. Is it really that weird that I haven't been doing anything… or anyone? It's been like… two-three months since I last attended a 'party' like this. If you boil it down, it's really more like an orgy of sorts. But four months can't make such a big difference right?

He chuckles at my confusion, which he obviously mistakes for amusement, "No, really, 'sup? Land yourself with a hot blonde like the mags say?"

"I don't read the gossip magazines, bro," I sigh, cocking my head to the side. His mention of the 'hot blonde' reminds me I need to find my phone and see if Quinn has replied my text from hours ago. I thought I put my phone in my bra, but apparently it's not there.

"No, really. People are talking about it. And I've watched you," he sneers playfully, squinting his eyes and leaning in close to my face, "You haven't touched a single girl that's landed on you. Or tried to land in you."

I laugh, "I'm a player, not a slut. I don't fuck every single girl I see."

"You used to define 'player' differently, then," he concludes, moving aside to avoid a collision with some random drunk as she stumbles around.

"Really?"

"So tell me about this hot blonde. She looks really familiar, you know."

I snort, "Either you've been fucking so many women it's fucked up your brain, or she's really changed so much that you can't remember her."

"I'm supposed to _know_ your partner? Dude, I never got introduced!"

"She's not my partner," I grit my teeth, "Okay, dipshit. Trivia time. Who was my worst enemy in my last few years of highschool?"

"Uhh… Brittany? No wait, that's the girl you fucked. Rachel. Nope, she's brunette… uhhhh…"

I playfully whack him across the head, "It's Quinn Fabray, for god's sake. And no, we're not dating." Not exactly, anyways.

Puck looks comical when he's surprised. His eyes go wide and his jaw falls open. I wish I could take a photo and send it to the mags later. _Lopez's man becomes a goldfish!_

"No. Fucking. Way."

"What?" I look uninterestedly at him. As much as I love his company right now to avoid the rest of the world, I don't want to feed his ego too much.

"Dude, she's the chick I got pregnant in high school! And straight as an arrow!"

"I'm well aware, whore." The reminder of Quinn's unborn child and… the abortion makes me lose whatever morsel of party spirit I had to begin with, "Unlike you, I don't have memory that lasts about as long as it takes you to cum."

"Hey!" He looks at me with a scowl as my smirk widens, "I last the fuck long in bed!"

"Sure~" I purr as I flip a finger and walk away with a smug grin on my face, "At least I don't fuck so many women that I forget the girl I used to crush on. See you around, Puck~"

"Where're you going, sexy?"

"Home!"

"So early? It's your party and it's only eleven!"

"I got a housewife at home, alright?"

"No, seriously?"

My grin turns into a look of absolute solemnity, "Serious."

I can't help but laugh at how confused Puck looks. His face is priceless.

* * *

_AN: alright, so I've sort of had a twitter account for a while, just that I never really use it. But I've decided to start actually using it for purposes other than stalking Naya and Dianna (like maybe posting teasers, updates on WIPs and life, and answering any questions you guys have? and asking for plots/prompts/or sharing them? i'm probably pretty boring haha!). Anyway, you can find me (TTBliss), and if you do decide to follow me (of course you will, you're darlings!), then maybe tweet or message me telling me who you are on FF (if you're under a different name on twitter), and which country you're from! And feel free to ask me questions, I'll reply to all of them as best as I can! _


	13. Chapter 13

_HELLLOO! One exam down, three to go!_

_This chapter is a little short, I know, but I suppose it's in a way pivotal? Again, not my favorite chapter._

_Anyhow, this chapter is dedicated to the wonderful sidneyspain! Enjoyy!_

_And remember, I could always use a little more love! :)_

* * *

**Chapter 13 **

_Santana's POV_

It's not even that late. Well, it's only fifteen till twelve, but at least I'm still home on my birthday. Pity it took me so long to find my phone. If I had known Quinn wanted to see me and wanted to have me miss her and be home early, I'd have been back at… eight?

I walk the steps up to the place I've come to comfortably call home. Weird, isn't it? A couple of weeks ago, I'd still just tell you this was a big house I could never afford and belonged to a stranger. Or someone I used to know, at the very most.

I plug the key into the keyhole and push the door open. To my surprise, the light's still on in the living room and dining room. I turn to shut the door silently behind me, locking it with a soft click.

For a moment, the image a very angry looking Quinn sitting cross armed and scowling on the living room couch flashes in my mind. I near the living room with silent steps, almost afraid of what monster would reside in there. A green-eyed monster, perhaps?

As I turn the corner and enter the room, I find myself staring at a sleeping beauty. Literally.

Her soft blond hair frames her face perfectly. Her eyelids are closed, but her lips are parted ever so slightly, it looks as though she's begging me to kiss her.

I've married an angel. _And she, like all angels from heaven, is just out of my reach._

Why is Quinn on the couch anyways? Was she tired and just napping and the nap turned into slumber? That would explain why she's so scantily clad, only in a robe, which is threatening to fall loose and reveal her body… Or did she fall asleep… waiting for me? I dare not fathom the latter.

Still, being back home and seeing her sleeping like this brings me a sense of belonging. Maybe Quinn cares a morsel about me…

I decide to head to the dining room to switch off the lights before I decide what to do with my sleeping beauty. To my surprise, there's a lone cupcake sitting in the middle of the dining table. It's placed on a few paper towels, and there's a somewhat messy swirl of buttercream and some heart shaped sprinkles on it.

It looks tempting, even though it's not perfect, and instinctively, I pick it up and take a bite. The buttercream tastes perfect, but the cake itself… it's a little tasteless. Still, I suppose the effort from the maids ought to be very much appreciated. How do they know it's my birthday anyway?

I continue eating the cupcake, even though it's not the best in the universe.

As I finish the cupcake, I head into the kitchen, hoping to catch one of the maids before they sleep. I know, it's really late, but I know they don't really sleep until everyone's at least home. There's a dim lamp turned on in the corner of the kitchen.

Hester comes out to meet me as I near the kitchen island. She has a really sharp sense of hearing, and though she can't talk, she can always hear it when one of us is coming into the kitchen. And she can tell who it is by the steps, too. It's magical.

She smiles at me, and I smile back.

"Thank you for the cupcake, it was delicious!" Well, at least the buttercream was delicious. The cupcake as… passable. Edible, at the very least.

She looks at me with a faint sense of surprise. Then she smiles, and shakes her head, making me a little confused. By now, I've learned to more-or-less decipher what Hester is trying to say with gestures only. If I'm in a hurry or I really don't get it, she will write it out for me, but that, of late, has become unnecessary.

"Am I thanking the wrong person?"

She nods.

"Whoops," I chuckle softly, "Is it Mia, Sara, or Elsa?"

To my surprise, she doesn't raise her fingers in either a 'one', 'two', or 'three'. She does raise one finger, however, but only to point to the trashcan.

I turn my head with a curious frown. It's overloaded with eggshells and lots of… brown… gooey… stuff… Some of it is dripping out in the most disgusting way. Hester moves in to take out the trash.

"Um… how many eggs are there?" One cupcake should not need the massacre of that many eggs. And I don't think any one of the four would be the type to trash all the batter after making one cupcake.

She holds up both hands, fingers fanned out. _Ten. _She puts down one hand. _Five._ So fifteen in total.

That could make around 7 or 8 dozen cupcakes…. why was there only one? Surely, someone with sense wouldn't bake one cupcake and dump the remnants in the trash. Or use fifteen eggs for one batter. Suddenly it hits me. Who's the most hopeless person I know when it comes to the kitchen?

"It's Quinn isn't it?" I bite my lip, anticipating the answer. At least this would explain why the cupcake itself tasted so bland. Hester nods with an amused smile. It's almost as though she thinks I should have long since realized.

I suppose I should have.

She points to the trashcan again. _Quinn._ She curls her fingers into a heart. _Heart. _And then she points to me. _You._

Quinn heart you. Quinn heart me. Quinn wants to rip out my heart. No wait, what? Quinn… loves me?

I shake my head with a hearty laugh, wanting to tell Hester that she's badly mistaken. She's so very badly mistaken. Quinn's still straight. We're just friends. I think we're friends. Are we?

Hester only shakes her head and rolls her eyes. She keeps smiling back at me. She knows I know better. And I do.

Quinn loves me enough to try to bake me a cake of sorts. It's kind of cute, really. Quinn's kind of cute. Why didn't I come home earlier?

Instead of trying to enjoy myself in the midst of overly touchy fingers and people who want to get in my pants, why didn't I come home earlier and truly enjoy an evening holding Quinn and watching another Disney movie? I really can be quite stupid sometimes.

I smile at Hester again, "Still, thanks for cleaning up after that dope."

She laughs silently, giving a soft nod. We both know Quinn in the kitchen meant a completely trashed kitchen.

"You should take a rest, Hester. Don't bother waking so early tomorrow morning, you need the rest after your hard work!"

She nods a quick 'thank you' and then turns around and excuses herself to take the trash out of the house.

I, too, turn around, exiting through the other door.

I turn off the light in the dining room as I leave and head back into the living room. The walk to the living room is short, but it's sufficient to run the whole conversation I just had with Hester once over in my head. In the silence of the living room, I have a chance to process my thoughts.

I wanted to clear my mind, put questions to rest, but the answer to each question only raises more questions.

Does Quinn really have the hots for me? I doubt. But it feels nice knowing she's made a cake for me… which means she remembers my birthday…?

I find myself smiling softly at the beautiful woman, so vulnerable yet so peaceful, in front of me. I don't think I've fallen for her.

But that's a lie. At least, that's what I want to believe, but I know better. Why else would I have felt completely uninterested at a party filled with the hottest models of the city? Why else would I not have wanted to kiss half-naked-brunette-on-my-lap when I thought about Quinn?

I've been in denial long enough. I think it's time to accept reality.

I've fallen for Quinn Fabray again. I don't know why, because I ought to hate her for the way she treats me most of the time. But it's the cute little smiles she always offers me, or that one singular punch line that makes me laugh, or it's the way she childishly looks at me. Maybe it's even the way she always kisses my forehead after I kiss her's before bed now.

It's a mistake to fall for her again, but people don't learn from history, and I don't learn from mistakes.

I kneel down beside her, admiring her gentle features. She looks like a sleeping child. She looks like the Quinn Fabray who used to have sleepovers with me. She looks like the Quinn Fabray I stole a kiss from in third grade, during one of those sleepovers.

I didn't know I loved her then. I only knew she was special, precious, and I wasn't going to let anything bad happen to her. I just knew I'd guard her from the right side of the bed against any and all monsters that climbed out of the closet or came in through the door.

I just knew I'd treasure her forever.

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I found my lips just a single inch from her's. I could smell her cherry lip balm. I leaned in, closing that distance of one inch. I press my lips against her's.

And now I find myself doing the same. I'm kissing Quinn again.

Her lips are soft. Softer than everyone else's. Believe me, I've had my share of kisses, so I'd know.

But Quinn's lips are different. I've kissed her on the lips… technically four times now, I believe. There's the third-grade kiss, the confession kiss, the kiss for our contract, and now this. And every single time I've kissed her, I find something new. It's not that her lips taste different or feel different. It's just that within me, each time I kiss her, I've found a new sense of fulfilment, some awkward sense of contentment.

To put it simply, every time I've kissed Quinn, I've felt alive. Despite the floods of women I've drowned in, how numb I've become to this world, this alien emotion of love—ever since Brittany—kissing Quinn has brought me back to life, into the light.

The grandfather clock strikes twelve.

I decide carrying Quinn upstairs now is not a wise decision. Instead, I jog up the stairs alone, going to my own room to take off my cocktail dress and my bra to change into sweatpants and a t-shirt. I pull a hoodie on myself, too. Then, grabbing an armful of blanket, I hastily walk back down. There's no time for removing the make up.

I drape the blanket over Quinn as soon as I'm close enough, tucking her in properly. I don't want her to catch a cold. She's too fragile to be sick, too beautiful to have to suffer.

Then, I lean down to kiss her forehead like I do every night. As I pull away, I realize she has a small smile on her face.

How can she be so sweet?

Then, I go and turn off the lights to the living room, and return to sit on the cold marble floor, leaning back into the couch. I draw my legs up, deciding Quinn is worth the hard floor I'll suffer on tonight, just to guard my sleeping beauty.

Our breathing falls into a steady pace in the darkness of the night.

Suddenly, I realize I don't want to sleep yet. I turn to my side, resting my elbow on the couch and leaning on my hand, watching her sleep.

Am I creepy to watch her sleep?

I sure hope not, I kind of grew up doing things this way.

I know her every feature when she sleeps. I can tell when she's dreaming, when she's having a nightmare. I know when to wake her up from one if it gets too bad.

I know Quinn Fabray.

I've always known her. I know her now. She's not just someone I used to know. She's Quinn Fabray, a woman I'm falling harder and faster for every single moment.

I frown with worry.

Quinn… please never fall in love with me.

You and I both know that once Russel's gone, we'll be over. You'll go on with your own career, your own way, get properly married, have kids. And I'll only go back to my lifestyle with double the scar of love. But I'll be fine, just for you.

We need to keep things this way. Keep it simple. Don't complicate them. We can be friends. It's better for you, better for your career, better for your life in the long run.

I'm not made for you, even if I believe right now with every breath I take that you are made for me.

Don't make your life miserable by loving me. I'll only hurt you, you know that. I'm not made for commitment. I'm not supposed to love you. I'm not going to stay.

I've tried so hard in my childhood, and I'm trying equally as hard now to protect you. I'm guarding you. So don't let me hurt you instead.

Don't fall in love with me.


	14. Chapter 14

_Hello! Early update because I didn't want to leave the fic on a saddd note. So here's an earrrrly update! This chapter is much lighter, and it's the calm before the calm... wait what? Well, the storm isn't here. Yet._

_(I'm doing everything but studying hahaha!) _

_Thank you for all the reviews, dears!_

_Do show me a little more love and encouragement~ _

_Enjoy~_

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**Chapter 14**

_Quinn's POV_

I try to crack open my eye. It's all silent here, and by the smell of it, this is not my room. Whatever I'm sleeping on is really hard and uncomfortable. It's making my back ache so much. Ah, right, I fell asleep on the couch. It's warm. A blanket? Why is there a blanket over me then? It smells like Santana.

Is she home? She's safe if she's home.

I try to straighten out my back without moving—which is pretty impossible—so I resolve to turning to my side. But as I sit up a fraction of an inch to turn, I find myself weighed down by something on my stomach. Cracking open my other eye to allow better focus, I blink a few times, trying to clear the sleep from my sight.

Who's that lying on my stomach? Well, who else? Santana actually looks really docile as she smiles sweetly in her dream. It's a little surprising how her sleeping face looks exactly like it used to look when we had sleepovers before things turned weird.

I find a strange nostalgic smile on my face that I can't quite explain as I raise one hand to run my fingers through her soft hair. I'm in a strangely good mood.

Watching her sleep makes me feel a little queasy in my stomach. Her make-up is still on her face, a little smeared, but none-the-less, she looks beautiful. I wonder how late she was out till last night, who she's held in her arms, and who she's kissed.

The thought of that dampens my mood a little. Why should I care?

Again, I run my fingers through her dark locks, and I watch as she stirs, myself having pulled her out of her slumber. She's so cute when she wakes up a little disoriented.

"Hey," I hear her voice murmur, still a little throaty from sleep. It's a little sexy, how raspy her voice is in the morning.

"Hey yourself," I mumble back, realizing my voice isn't much better. She smiles, still not raising her head from my stomach. Is it comfortable?

"Sorry about last night. I lost my phone. I wanted to come home earlier, though." Santana's smile isn't scathing or intimidating. It's just sweet.

"Oh," I look away, still a little embarrassed at the tiny subconscious attempt at flirting I made yesterday, "It's nothing…"

"Are you mad?"

"Do I look mad?"

"You should be…"

"I'm not." It's a little surprising to myself, even, that I didn't break out and release all hell on Santana this morning. But who can blame me for not wanting to ruin such a peaceful and beautiful, blessed morning? I bite on my lower lip a little to suppress a small smile inching up on my face.

Then Santana does the most 'Santana' thing ever. She surprises me.

"I missed you."

"Yea?" I whisper very softly as my fingers pause their motion, "Me too."

"Yeah. Don't stop that finger thingy you're doing," she sighs softly, apparently content with the way I'm treating her this morning.

"You always liked the way I comb my fingers through your hair."

"No one does it right. Only you do it the way I like it." She reaches up to catch my hand in her's, but I shudder at her touch. Her hand is really really cold.

"Hey…" I whisper, finding a slight frown on my face, "are you cold?" The answer is all too obvious.

"A bit," Santana confesses, taking her hand away from mine. She evidently doesn't want to make me uncomfortable. But I don't want her cold either.

"Come on to the couch. There's room for two." _What am I saying?!_

Santana looks a little amused as she entertains the idea, "It's a little small, Quinnie, are you sure we'll both fit?"

"We're both slim, we'll make it work," I respond with a haughty pout, "Come on in."

"Ugh, fine." Santana heaves herself up from the floor with the help of the couch. I watch as she sits on the edge of the couch, ready to climb into it, under the covers, with me.

She's right. It's a really tight fit. I'm squished into the back of the couch. She's about to fall off. There's two inches of space between us, which… is a little unnecessary. At the very least, it's excusable today.

"I don't bite." I mutter, my fingers clutching her hoodie under the blanket, in a failing attempt to pull her a little closer.

"What if I want you to?" She smirks, scooting herself in a little.

"Cold feet!" I half-scream as her legs come in contact with mine. I want to push her away, but I know she'll end up falling off the couch, so I can only pull her closer.

Santana laughs, "Sorry." She snakes an arm around my waist to hold me close as well. "Why don't you sleep in a little more?"

My head nestles perfectly into place near her collarbone. She's a good pillow, I'm sure of that. Ignoring her question, I husk another one, "When did you come home last night?" Breathing in her scent, I close my eyes. It's surprisingly soothing.

"Before twelve."

I can feel her breath on the top of my head as she speaks, but I don't mind. And I think I've accidentally slipped my leg between her's, but she doesn't seem to mind. I reason with myself that if I move now, it'll just make it awkward…

"Oh shit. I didn't get a chance to say 'happy birthday' to you yesterday!" I open my eyes and tilt my head upwards so I can look into her eyes.

"Feeling guilty?" The twinkle in her eye reminds me that she's dangerous. Very dangerous.

I snort to cover up my obvious embarrassment, "Of course not."

"Hey, the cupcake was pretty good yesterday, by the way. I liked it. Thank you." Santana looks so sincere. It makes me feel like 15 eggs and 7 batters of cake mix didn't _exactly_ go to waste.

"You're welcome."

"You know… you could do one thing to make me feel like an even happier birthday girl."

"It's not even your birthday anymore," I tease, but she can tell I'm fully willing to have our own little celebration.

"Aw, c'mon, Q. Just one little thing."

"Mm… how about we spend the day together?"

"I thought that was a given. I totally deserve a whole day of your attention," she laughs, her body vibrating against my own.

I find myself laughing with her, "Alright, fine, what do you want?"

Santana stops laughing really abruptly, "God, you're either gonna die laughing or castrate me for this."

I frown, still with a smile in my eyes, "If it's sex, no. But as far as I'm concerned, I can't really castrate you. So you're relatively safe." Suddenly, I find myself focused on her lips. She's biting her lower lip, unsure of what to say. And I… I want to… I want to kiss her? I don't make sense in the morning. Must be the lack of sleep.

She takes a really deep breath, her eyes frantically darting from side to side. There's an uncomfortable silence that hangs between us as I continue staring at her lips. They glisten slightly and they look really inviting. Why have I never noticed this before?

"Can you kiss me?"

I don't answer because I'm not sure if I'm imagining the question. I just lean in. I think it's by impulse. But seriously, what the fuck am I doing? As I close the distance between us, I just close my eyes.

Some things are better off not thought about. Thinking too much only complicates things.

Our lips touch. Santana's lips are really soft. Maybe it's because this time, the kiss isn't rushed or stolen. Neither one of us is truly rejecting it. Neither one of us dislikes it.

The kiss is slow and sensual, despite it being still nonetheless short. When I pull away, I find my heart thumping wildly. What on earth is this feeling?

I bury my face in the crook of Santana's neck again. Eye contact is the last thing I want to make.

To my surprise, and to my relief, her heart is beating no slower than mine. I clutch onto her shirt.

"Qui—"

"Don't talk. You're going to ruin the moment and make things awkward."

So just like that, with me snuggled so shamelessly against Santana, we stay quiet as mice till the grandfather clock sounds its hourly reminder. I tear my focus from Santana's gradually slowing heartbeat and count the resounding strikes. Nine.

"Quinn, why don't we move upstairs? That way you can sleep better."

"If you carry me, we'll go."

Santana laughs as she gets—or rather, rolls—off the couch. "Alright, pillow princess, your room or mine?"

"Santana, that statement was highly inappropriate." I raise an eyebrow. She's smiling cockily at me, triumphant almost, that she has successfully made a sexual innuendo.

Sometimes, I wonder if she's ever grown up from her middle school self. Probably not.

"Wanky." She licks her lips, eyeing me up and down. I feel like she's undressing me with her eyes, and it is somewhat intimidating.

"Are we moving upstairs or not?" I mutter impatiently, looking away.

"Are you blushing?"

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Quinn, you so fucking are blushing!" Santana squeals excitedly as she lifts me, blanket and all, from the couch without warning. I squeal back in surprise, my arms wrapping around her neck instantly, clinging on for dear life. We're both in surprisingly good moods, despite last night's horrible sleep.

"Alright, Princess Quinn Fabray of… Loser-land, how fares thou?" Santana's cracking up at her own joke before I can respond.

I don't respond verbally anyways, because I suddenly realize how comfortable I am with her. Is my friendship with Santana already restored? It's been a short while only, but I feel… really nice being around her.

We still talk back and bite (god, not literally!), but it's out of friendly fun now. What happened to the scathing remarks, those hateful glares and the merciless teasing?

"Hey, you okay? Weirded out by the lesbian-ness of this whole situation or what?"

Realizing that we've already made it up the stairs and down the hall, I find myself staring at the door of my own room. "No…" I murmur unsurely as I nod in approval of her opening my door.

"You sure you're alright?"

"Stop making it awkward, alright? I'm fine."

As soon as we get into my room, Santana flings me onto my bed. And by fling, I really mean toss, throw, and sort of hurl me into bed. I land on the soft mattress with a soft cry of… distress? Or is it surprise?

"What the fuck are you doing?" I laugh as Santana launches herself at me, landing a knee on either side of my waist and then proceeding to tickling my sides.

Giggling and semi-choking, I toss, turn, and writhe under her. "Santana!" I swear I take back everything I've ever thought or said about her 'magical fingers'.

"Yes, princess?"

"Oh shut the…. Santana! No…. stop it! Don't…. Ah! Stop…!" I'm bursting into fits of giggles even though her fingers barely graze my skin from all the moving I'm doing. I don't know why I find this so funny… so _fun_.

"Stop, or don't stop?" Santana is displaying her full signature smirk as her fingers pull themselves an inch away from me, still ready to attack at anytime.

I stick my tongue out at her, "Stop, you asshole."

"What day is it today?"

"Um… Wednesday?"

Santana clears her throat as she prepares her new proclamation, "Okay, I declare all Wednesdays opposite days!"

"What? No!" I shout back as I feel her fingers nearing my sides again. Before she even touches me, I'm writhing and giggling all over again.

Clearly amused, Santana only pretends to attack, her fingers never come into contact with my body. Still, I'm avoiding her touch, left and right.

Then suddenly, she decides I've been utterly defeated and plops down onto the bed right next to me. She turns her head, looking at me.

I guess I really have been defeated. I'm utterly breathless, trying to suck in as much oxygen as possible as I turn my own head to admire her smile.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're really cute?"

"What?" I breathe as my chest heaves up and down. Santana is such a tease.

"No really, has anyone ever told you that you're really cute?"

I raise an eyebrow, feeling a little confused, "Um. Yeah. Sure. Plenty."

"Guys?"

I nod.

"Who want to get into your pants?"

I nod again. Then, after a slight pause, I smile, "Are you saying this because you're calling me cute and want to get into my pants?"

"Well, you are cute… as for the pants part…" Santana trails off with a suggestive smirk. I raise my arm to playfully punch her on the shoulder.

"Pervert."

She laughs, and it's a laugh of true contentment, "Alright, joking. But you really are cute. Like, super cute."

"Hey, don't make it weird." I don't know why I keep saying that. It didn't used to be 'weird' when she called me cute as kids. But… we were kids then. What changed?

Growing up?

"You're right, sorry," Santana gives me an apologetic smile, but there's something that's in her face, in her eyes, that I can't quite interpret.

"So…" A heavy silence hangs in between us as I try to process what I should say, "Um… I'm not… sleepy anymore. Do you wanna do something?"

"Is there anything you want to do?" That mystifying look in her eyes disappear as quickly as it came.

Forgetting to process what I say through my brain before it leaves my lips, I blurt, "I wanna spend a day with you."

Santana smiles. It's a real smile, and her smile is really beautiful. I think I can get used to this smile. I like it already. "Mm… well… I do have a photoshoot this evening. Do you want to come with me?"

"Oh." I'm not sure why, but this weight sinks in my heart when I hear that.

"Do you… not want to go?" A look of concern washes over Santana's flawless features. I must look crestfallen. That cannot be so.

Instantly, I muster up another smile, "Nah… I was just expecting something more…. more…"

"Fun? Or do you want me alone?" She finishes for me with a gentle brush of her finger on my cheek, "Quinn Fabray, this is an invitation to be on set, gawking at the flawless body of the next Supermodel. It'll be fun, and even if we're not alone, I'll make it up tonight."

"As if," I scoff, choosing to ignore her comment about 'making up' and putting my hand on the one she's reached out to me, "I'm just gonna sit there, blushing because you're wearing too little to be legal."

"You're gonna like it. Trust me."

"I don't," I retort at once, again not thinking about what I'm saying.

And instantly, Santana looks like a kicked puppy, "I'm sorry…" She pulls her hand away from mine. The loss of contact stings like it shouldn't.

"No… I don't mean…" I reach out to take her hand again, "I mean I don't know if I'll like it or not… but I trust you enough to give it a try?"

I offer a genuine smile, to which she responds with an even broader one, "Deal. If you don't like it, you can punish me tonight."

"Oh?" I'm glad to see her happy again, and so I lick my lips to tease just a little bit, "And how exactly would you like to be punished?"

Obviously, my forward comment has taken her by shock. She freezes for the slightest fraction of a second, before licking her own lips with a signature smirk, "Oh, I don't know, Queen Fabray… why don't you decide?" She winks.

Santana Lopez fucking winks.

For a moment, I feel like I'm falling. I don't know why I'm falling, or what I'm falling into. But it's a good kind of falling.

It's the kind of falling where you just _know_ someone will be there to catch you. It's a safe kind of falling.

Only, if this kind of falling is the kind of 'falling' I think it is—and pray it's not—it's anything but safe.

Nope, can't love a playgirl. They're made to be heartbreakers. Made to be good courters. Made to be trusted a little too much.

"Um… Is this where I say 'wanky'?"


	15. Chapter 15

_Exams for May are done! June, please never come!_

_Anyhow, this chapter has been edited and reedited, and re-reedited, and re-re-reedited, but I still find so many flaws. Hopefully, though, they're not too bad!_

_Enjoy! And show a little bit of love maybe? :)_

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**Chapter 15**

_Quinn's POV_

Heaven sends blessings in the weirdest ways. This time, this blessing in disguise is Santana Lopez.

"Quinn, what are you doing?"

"Hmm?" I turn to look at her, only to find her looking down at our hands. I look down to find mine slightly on her's as we rest on a bench in the park. "Oh. Whoops." I pull my hand away with a lopsided grin. I don't know how the hand got there.

"It's not that I mind, Q. Just that there might be paparazzi."

"You're scared that everyone will know you're with me?" I ask, a little puzzled.

Santana rolls her eyes at me, "No. I'm scared you'll mind."

"Well, I don't." I decide to put my hand back on her's paparazzi or not. I can't help but notice how she falls silent all of a sudden and turns to look into the far distance.

I don't know why I decided to hold her hand again, but it just feels natural. Maybe it's the way we're sitting, or the way we've spent an afternoon taking a walk around the city and ending up at this park, it just feels _right_.

I think I'm actually looking forward to tonight.

I think I'm sort of looking forward to the future.

"I still feel a little bloated from that ice cream, you know," I smile, deciding it wouldn't hurt to lean into her a little.

"Yeah, it was a bad idea considering I have a bikini shoot tonight," Santana laughs, reaching over to pat my stomach, "but oh well, they can photoshop out whatever isn't supposed to be there!"

"Well, I think you're beautiful without photoshop."

Santana pauses for a moment, and then breaks into a full smile, "I think you'll really have fun tonight."

_—_

She's right. I'm having fun. Not the typical type of fun you'd expect, of course, but I'm actually enjoying sitting in this chair in the corner of a room, a couple of cameras lying around and another few propped up, and a dozen people scattered across the space. And then, of course, there's Santana taking the spotlight in the middle of the room, which is lined in white.

There's something about her in a photo shoot that strikes me particularly hard in the… gut? Or head. Or heart.

She looks absolutely flawless under the bright flashing lights, every bit of her tanned and toned muscles shimmering under the lens. She looks utterly comfortable being dressed in a simple white bikini, which in my opinion, is showing way too much cleavage. I was right to begin with, she's dressed in too little to be legal. I don't want all these people staring at her.

Santana seems to flow from pose to pose so effortlessly, turning her head this way and that to catch the best angle, bending her body front and back, smiling and smirking as needed.

In the distance, I hear people muttering and murmuring urgently about something, but Santana seems totally unaffected by the distant droning. From the way they are speaking, they're dealing with something important, but if Santana doesn't think it's worth her notice, then I shouldn't be bothered by it either. Other than the fact that it is a rather unwelcome distraction.

Does Santana always look this sexy at home too? How is it that I don't notice the way she winks, or stands like she owns America, or the way she occasionally flashes a smile at me? Doesn't she do the same things at home?

My view is then obstructed by a woman pushing a cart full of hanging clothes and stopping practically just in front of me. I almost groan in disappointment. Almost.

I stand up with my back straight, and walk a little closer to the cameras, so I can continue watching Santana's flawlessness.

"Is it… Miss Fabray?" A voice I don't recognize magically appears behind me. I turn in search of putting a face to the voice.

A man that resembles one Kurt Hummel stands before me. Only he is about 5 inches shorter, and looks a lot more… rainbows-and-unicorns-type. Definitely less fashion-queen and less fabulous.

"Yeah…" I hesitate as I find my voice, "I suppose you could call me that."

"Or Mrs. Lopez," a voice I'm much too familiar with sounds behind me. My shoulders sag in defeat as I roll my eyes, feeling a firm hand on my shoulder, though I notice the unchanged facade of the man. "So, Mr. Fabulous, when's Carrie coming?"

_Who's Carrie._

"That's the problem," 'Mr. Fabulous' mutters with such a monotonous voice, I wonder whether he believes the whole 'Mrs. Lopez' crap Santana just spouted. "Carrie isn't coming."

"What?" Santana exclaims beside me, throwing her hands up to the air in frustration. I can't help but notice how her breasts seem to bounce this tiny little bit when she does that hard. "She has to! I'm not coming in again!"

"Well… that's why, I was hoping that Mrs…?" He looks at me again with a slight frown, "Miss Fabray could fill in."

"What? No… I mean…" I stutter over my words, suddenly ripped away from the heavenly vision of Santana's breasts and placed into a request needing an on-spot answer.

"Yeah, she'll do it," Santana speaks for me, and as I look at her in disbelief, I find her grinning at me, "Give us ten. Then get someone to do her make up and her hair."

Santana whisks me away without addressing the man again, pushing me into the corner that I originally took refuge in. Now I just feel trapped.

"You planned this," I hiss, crossing my arms as my brows furrow.

"I swear I didn't."

"And why should I believe you?"

Santana sighs, "Look, Carrie is awesome, a great model, sexy, hot, charming, interesting, beautiful—"

"You've fucked her, haven't you?" I retort with an obviously unamused face, staring straight into her eyes. What's this feeling inside me that makes me feel slightly queasy?

"I…" Santana's confidence falters and she reaches out to take my hand. What makes her think I'd want to touch _those_ _fingers_ that have been in some whore's… "Guilty. But that's in the past, alright? She's one of those… spaghetti girls."

"What?" I smack her hand away, trying to ignore how hurt Santana looks.

"Like… you know… like spaghetti…" She's drawing a complete blank from me and she knows it. She scrunches up her nose really cutely, trying to word the definition perfectly, "She's straight until she's… wet?"

I want to insult the whore, but Santana's face and what she has just said makes me splutter before breaking into a series of giggles. Is that a lesbian term that I ought to be learning?

"It's not that funny, you know…" Santana murmurs, obviously a little lost at my sudden outburst. "It kind of sucks when you're lesbian."

"Well…" I try to stifle my laughter but her confused face seems to amuse me even further. Eventually, though, I turn serious, "If she was here, would you guys be getting it on behind the camera?"

"God, no," Santana reaches out to take my hand again, and this time, I let her hold it, "Not when…"

"When…?"

"Not when I have a wife," she smiles softly, but she has that look in her eyes again. Is it supposed to scare me, the fact that she looks like she did when she first kissed me? It doesn't.

"So… Are you gonna explain how this whole thing works?"

"It's simple really. We get you fitted for a bikini. And then we get you in make up and add a little volume to your hair. Then we shoot it with me wrapped all over you."

"Oh please tell me the last part isn't true," I tease, "It'd really suck."

"You'd like it and you know it," Santana smirks, "Besides, I like to keep you safe from prying eyes. You'll _really_ enjoy this photo shoot. Come on!"

"Come on where?"

"I don't know, the bed?"

"What the hell, Santana!" I rip my hand from her touch, playfully slapping her on the shoulder as she scampers off into the distance. I chase after her, "Come back here you little—"

She stops before I can, and my body comes crashing into her's. Our lips touch. As surprised as I am, I don't want them to un-touch.

Santana pulls back before I do, and I almost lean in for more. "Shit, sorry," she murmurs, "let's get you fitted for a bikini? Halter-neck. Hey, can someone get me a blue bikini here?"

I love the way Santana acts as though she owns the place, and the way everyone comes to life suddenly at her commands. Within moments, I find three different styled bikinis held in front of me as Santana decides on which one would look most 'becoming' on me.

"Woah, hold your horses, Latina, I'm the director here, not you!" Rainbows-and-Unicorns eyes Santana with a quirked eyebrow, "You seem to believe you own this place!" Exactly.

"Oh, Al, be nice! Quinnie's only here this once, so let me help with the choosing! She's such a beauty you'll sell a billion copies before you know it!" Santana pouts slightly as she takes one of the bikinis from the assistants, "Oh, and get me the red one too, dear?"

"You cheeky little thing," Al-Fabulous-man-person mutters fondly as Santana takes me by the hand, already dragging me off to a curtained area.

"Usually," she explains, hurrying to undo the buttons on my blouse, "we just change outside. But since this is a bikini shoot and I'm newly married," she practically rips my shirt off of me and tosses it aside, "I asked Al for a curtained area so I could get changed like a normal person." Her hands are on the clasp of my bra, and I feel strangely aroused, "And since he loves me so much, he agreed."

A hand pokes in from behind the curtain and Santana grabs the red bikini and promptly begins to undo her original white one. My eyes follow her every movement. Then her fingers pause, just before her bra falls to the ground.

"You know how to put a bikini on, right?" she muses as I stare, and having been caught, I blush.

"Of course!" Only now do I realize she has long since thrown aside my bra and stuffed a blue top piece in my hands. I try to put it on as quickly as possible, looking away slightly to hide my burning cheeks.

When I look back at Santana again, she's already changed into the red bikini. I wish I could have seen a little more of her.

"Quinn…" Santana has obviously decided I'm too slow, because I feel her fingers brush against the hem of my jeans, undoing them for me. A fresh wave of arousal hits me. Shit. What is wrong with me today? She yanks down my jeans without a word. Then she stops, unsure if she should continue. "Quinn, do you shave your pussy?"

"What?" My smile falters as I freeze and stare at her. What does she want?

"Well, it's gonna… um… show… if you haven't…"

"Uh, yeah, it's shaved…" For a moment, we stare into each other's eyes without speaking. "I… I think I'd be more comfortable with doing the last part myself."

Santana smiles at me softly, before moving close to give me a quick hug, "I'll be right outside. Don't take so long, alright?"

In less than ten seconds, I find myself alone in the small partitioned area, the blue bottom in my hand and Santana nowhere in sight.

—

"A little to the left, can you arch your back a little more?"

"Al, she's just a lawyer! You can't make her contort in all your crazy little ways!"

"I'm not," he scoffs, "Just trying to help this shoot reach _perfecto._"

"No, you're trying to make this all _weirdo_."

I see him roll his eyes before leaning back slightly to 'get a glimpse of the full picture'. I'm tired from leaning over this damned chair. Why does Santana get to sit?

"Babe, you alright?" I can't look down at Santana, but I let out a small sigh that only she can hear. "If you're too tired, I can tell him to let us take five?"

I shake my head very softly, whispering into her ear, "I can't. I feel like I'm letting you guys all down!"

"Don't talk!" Al yells.

"Not really," Santana ignores him, shifting her position as I shift mine, giving me a full view of her breasts. Damn. I swear I did not come to this shoot to find my eyes glued to her boobs, but they really are beautiful. "You're kind of doing us all a favor. Oh, and learn to talk without really moving your lips."

"How much longer do we have?"

"Well, there's just one more scene, I believe. An hour? Maybe a little less?"

"Oh god, fuck me."

"I would if you'd let me."

"What?"

"Wanky~" She smirks at me as she snakes her arm around my waist, pulling me down to sit on her lap. I yelp at the unexpected contact, but all the same, settle myself comfortably in her lap.

"What is this shoot even for."

"A porno mag."

"Shit, seriously?"

"As if I'd pimp my favorite girl," she rolls her eyes at me, "Come kiss me on the cheek?"

"Do I have to?"

"How much do you want to bet this scene is a wrap once you do?"

"I'll bet you a movie. You get to pick the movie this weekend if you win!"

"Cheater," she whispers, barely moving her lips as the next series of flashes come, "It's my turn anyway!"

"Fine, you get to choose next week too!" Santana arches her back a little more, pressing her breasts onto me and I let out a small gasp. I'm not sure if she noticed, but I pray she didn't.

"Deal. Now kiss me."

"Cheek?"

"Unless you're dying to tongue me."

"In your dreams, Lopez." I lean in to give her a soft peck on her cheek. The lights are blinding as multiple cameras flash one after another.

"O-kay! Wrap, guys! I want you two on the floor after you change bikinis!"

"I win!" Santana immediately hops out of the chair, carrying me with ease towards the curtains. I don't know if I should be blushing and hiding, or laughing and enjoying this free ride.

"Damn… So… what's this shoot for?"

"Al's private exhibition."

"Featuring…?"

"Hot girls?" She shrugs as she sets me down on the floor, "Lilac for you, black for me." She tosses me a two-piece again, "I'll look away, so that way we can both change quickly."

Santana whirls around immediately, but I allow my eyes to linger as her fingers tug at the thin string holding her bikini top together.

I turn around before she takes off her bottom though, and begin to change myself. I utterly confuse me. Why do I want to stare at Santana so much?

I've always found her pretty and beautiful… sometimes pretty hot… but seriously… what's with me today? Does waking up with Santana on your stomach make you mysteriously want her? Or does she have some sort of wicked black magic charm or something that makes girls just…

"Can I turn around?"

"Uh… yeah…" I smile as I turn around as well, facing Santana.

"God, you're gorgeous."

"Thanks," I blush, "So… what's next?"

"Al's gonna want to drape you all over me, or drape me all over you."

I groan as Santana leads me out of the makeshift changing room and makes me lie down beside her on the floor. Immediately, I find her pressed onto me. We're so close together that we're breathing the same air.

"Alright guys, do your job!" An array of cameras come to life as Santana moves on and around me with ease. I'm not quite sure what to do, so I decide I'll just be a prop. Every now and then Santana's breasts come in contact with mine. Each time, I happen to notice that the room seems… a little cold… Those are definitely her nipples I feel pressed against me. Fuck.

"Quinn… are you alright?"

"Yeah… why…?"

"You're squirming…" she helps me up to sit on the floor as she sits beside me, facing me, "Are you… wet?"

"Um…" I can't say yes now, can I? That would be weird. Besides, that would totally give Santana the wrong idea. I open my mouth but I don't know what to say.

She beats me to answering though, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't getting wet."

"Santana!" I bite my lower lip in frustration. I can't tell if she's teasing. I sort of hope she is, but wish she isn't.

"Oh! Keep that face, Fabray! I love it!" Al's voice is beginning to turn really annoying.

"Sorry you're feeling kinda sticky down there, baby."

"Santana…" there's an edge to my voice, and it's sharp.

"No, Quinn, really. We're almost done, so hang in there, alright?"

She stares at me, and I see her eyes momentarily travel down to my lips, before she brings them back to look into my own eyes. She has these beautiful brown eyes that twinkle.

"Do you like me, Santana?" I blurt before I realize what I'm asking.

She freezes for a split moment, her face going blank, before she smiles brightly, "Of course I like you. You're a good friend. Wife, maybe. Why, do you like me?"

"You're a good massager?" I smile awkwardly as she puts her hand behind my neck to pull me closer, "I like being around you."

With my lips inches away from her's, we're breathing the same air. I can feel blood pulsating in my ears, I can hear my heart pound like there's no tomorrow. I feel myself go rigid, but go numb at the same time.

We both know what we meant, but we're both sort of avoiding the question. I wonder why.


End file.
